


What's Past Is Prologue

by bbvqueen, machinate



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: 4th wall breakage, 80s/90s Music, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguity, Art, Blood, Brainwashing, Child Death, Child Soldiers, Death, Disturbing Themes, Dom/sub Undertones, Drugs, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gen, Horror Elements, Identity Issues, Light BDSM, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mindfuck, Missing Scene, POV Alternating, Plot, Slow Build, Surreal, Torture, Unconventional Format, Unreliable Narrator, Violence, Violence against Children, Voyeurism, War Crimes, dark themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-04-28 14:42:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 35,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5094512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbvqueen/pseuds/bbvqueen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/machinate/pseuds/machinate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A (mostly) canon-compliant AU focusing on the relationship between Big Boss and Venom Snake; we've only rewritten the truth ending/reveal. Deals with events between 1984 and 1999, and to a lesser extent the good old MSF days. Slow build, eventual slash & smut. Some gen and other pairings sprinkled in.</p><p>Collaboration with <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/machinate">machinate</a> (who writes Venom), so the POV alternates. This work also implements an unconventional narrative structure.</p><p>DISCONTINUED. Please enjoy the existing story for what it is :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 00 - PROLOGUE: TO YOU, 24 YEARS AGO

I never finished Moby Dick.

You asked me once if it was any good. I was halfway through it then, and you felt the mood to strike up a conversation while we were heading back to Mother Base. The mission was a success with minimum scuffle despite the danger, and you didn’t need me to watch you. So I took out a book instead. It had a well-worn cover from being handled so much, coming up to about 400 pages. It was the most mobile version I could find that could fit neatly into my medkit’s front pocket.

I was honest. I said it was a difficult reading. I said I would rather have the edition with all the footnotes but so far it was pretty good. You told me that all the books I recommended to you so far were ones you ended up finishing. I smiled.

You called me your friend once.

Did Ahab find his elusive Whale? Did Ishmael escape alive? These were petty questions that ran through my mind as I absorbed the blow meant for you, with the unerring conviction that I wouldn’t come out of this alive.

I never finished Moby Dick, but I almost did, and I think I knew how it would end.

Oh, I loved you - but I loved you in the way the heart loves a cause. A love that was beyond familial and friendly and romantic. A soldier fights because he loves what was behind him, and that applied to me the moment I jumped and became your shield.

And just like a heart that loved a cause, I didn’t need you to love me back.

This was enough for me.


	2. 01 - THE MAN WHO SOLD THE WORLD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER 1: VERITAS
> 
> (Episodes 01 - 05)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hover over text for translations.

**AHAB**

 

It happened in the Angola-Zaire border region, near the end of 1986. Just a few clicks north of the Nova Braga Airport, in an outpost beyond ZRS and CFA grasp - easy pickings, really, for another foreign outfit to take over. But outsiders weren’t welcome in Angola, no; not when there were already three private forces squeezing the region dry.

The soldier in Venom’s arms gasped for breath, scrabbling at the metal around his neck and  ** _jerking_** -

Just an intel op.

With the unconscious man safely hidden in tall grass, Venom scanned the rest of the area with his NVGs. The patrols were tight; every stationed soldier had a partner and they were all heavily armoured. He  _could_ call in a supply drop for a gun with higher penetration, but he was mostly interested in getting in and out immediately - he already finished one op earlier that day on the other side of the region, and felt slightly overdue for a pick up.

Venom glided towards the nearest building with relative ease, pressing close to the wall in a low crouch. His mission, specifically, was to gather intel on the leader of this new PF and compile it for the use of one Evan Arther Austen, affiliated with UNITA. Probably an agent for South Africa - and, by extension, the West. Miller and Ocelot agreed to it pretty easily. Wouldn’t hurt to check it out themselves since it was also the first time the Diamond Dogs had heard of them.

In retrospect, Venom thought this gap in his intel should have been a little alarming considering how well fitted these soldiers were. They also didn’t have any sort of insignia he could take note of. There wasn’t any clue as to who they were dealing with, so as it was, he was operating blind.

So then: business as usual. He scaled up to the roof of the building he was leaning against; fished out his binoculars to mark every target he could find. The soldier he interrogated said that whatever they had of value was in the south westernmost building - if he was particularly lucky, maybe he could even catch the man himself. Soon enough, he was weaving around the outpost with a practised step, having done a hundred of missions like these over the past two years. The target building had an open window; an invitation, perhaps?

Venom wasted no time in vaulting over, eye adjusting to the near total darkness of the room. A cursory glance with his flash light revealed that the file he needed was waiting on a desk nearest to him.

It was open. Like an invitation.

Venom pursed his lips and lightly touched the paper, eyes scanning for anything that might be useful. It was mostly redacted, but his mystery man had a name, and it was

_“But in revolution, doesn’t one triumph or die?”_

_“We don’t do either.”_

Venom barely stopped himself from crushing the file in his hands, breaking out in cold sweat as he read the name again.  _Nathan Sauveterre_. Why was…

He shook his head, gritting his teeth against the uneasiness that welled up in him almost immediately. There were footsteps approaching his location, and his body automatically took over for him: he distantly noted the route  _Nathan_  usually took, before disappearing over the window again just as the door started to open. Why was he -

 _This is not the time._  He had a mission to do. Shoulders taut with tension, Venom made his way to where his target was supposed to be. He found a vantage point to scout from; looked through his binoculars again while trying to calm himself down. Something wasn’t right.

 

***

 

**ISHMAEL**

 

A fist met someone’s jaw with a sickening crunch. There was such force behind the blow that blood sprayed across the wall before the body slammed against the hard surface, resting against it for a couple seconds before it began to slide down, pulled towards the ground by its own weight.

“Tufi na yo,” the words were spat out like venom, together with a molar tooth, and a hand pulled him up again by his collar to deliver another vicious punch to his gut, succeeded by the incessant pummeling of fists; the relentless pounding of flesh and bone had been the only noise echoing off the walls in the small, enclosed basement room for the past few minutes.

On the brittle, cluttered shelves, between ammunition cartridges and toolboxes, there were still remnants of the past, of the purpose this room had once served – a stuffed toy with missing limbs, children’s books with titles and colors faded out; containing countless stories that might have once filled this room with innocent laughter when given a voice. But that day, like any other day in the years preceding that moment in recorded history, this room was used for torture, summoning only avowals of hatred by means of physical violence.

“Isso não é o que eu quero ouvir,” Nathan said, the ringleader and supervisor of this session. He clicked his tongue first, and then his zippo to produce a tiny flame he could hold to his  _Joya de Nicaragua_ , after biting off the end of the cigar. Besides him and the lucky captive – there were more where he came from, in the secluded buildings outside – four other men, all barely scraping twenty, were in the room with him. One of them was currently bloodying his hands, acting under orders from his commander. Following a short pause to catch his breath, he continued to treat their ‘patient’ without having to be prompted.

In the end it didn’t really matter whether or not the subject disclosed any valuable information – whether he converted to his side and lived, or died. The true purpose behind these interrogations was another, and twofold; firstly, he was showing his freshly recruited men how to deal with particularly stubborn POWs and intruders while he was absent, further desensitizing them in the process. Words only ever got you so far, and not everyone could wield them with the efficiency and murderous precision of a gun – he didn’t expect them to. They didn’t need to say anything. Because the other reason for this, a primal emotion ruling all men in their struggle for survival, was best communicated without words, anyway.

Fear of the next blow to come – of the future.

Nathan gestured his man to stop when the prisoner lay on the ground, not moving, but still breathing, some ribs likely shattered. “Tente outra coisa,” he said, calmly breathing out a cloud of smoke. These were unrefined techniques, beating someone into a bloody pulp, but raw brutality was a necessary basis if he wanted to teach anything more sophisticated.

“Ele ainda tem a maioria dos dentes, né?” He nodded at the only chair in the room.“Deixe-o confortável. Vá pegar uns alicates.”

His men hesitated only briefly, then started to move according to the instructions. A thin voice came from somewhere below, quivering.“Quê…”

They dragged him up only to get him seated, preemptively holding him down. That was when the door swung open in the back, though Nathan was the only to take note and turn towards the man that entered. He looked spooked, though not because of the scene unfolding, which he only gave a cursory glance. He touched Nathan’s arm and leaned close, speaking in hushed whispers.

“Excusez-moi de vous interrompre. Il est ici.”

“Es-tu sûr?”

“Nous ne le voyons pas, mais selon l'émetteur… Nous avons perdu contact avec au moins deux hommes.”

“Comme un fantôme. Bien. Retour à votre poste.”

The man hastily left the room again, and Nathan stepped forward to place a hand on another shoulder, the same moment a pair of pliers was to be forcefully shoved into the captive’s mouth. They stopped.

“We’re done for now,” he told them. He addressed the prisoner next, who was staring at him with wide eyes, heaving a shaky sigh, grateful for the interruption although he did not understand the words.

“And you…”He plucked the cigar from his lips, ground the glowing ember out against the bloodstained, right side of his forehead, scorching the skin and wrenching a stifled scream from him.

“Remember this face.”

Nathan ordered two men to escort him back to his cell, and took the remaining two back to the main building with him. He pulled a balaclava over his head on the way out, making him indistinguishable from the rest of the seemingly unaffiliated – but still somehow conjoined – mercenaries stationed at the outpost.

 

***

 

Nathan took the route as described in the intel file, which had originally been left behind for the two snipers that were to cover him during specified hours – usually. They were posted somewhere else today.

A drizzle had started to come down. Perhaps the first sign of an oncoming storm, though only someone else could tell for sure. Nathan was flanked by the two men accompanying him to the central control building, belonging to a small factory processing raw oil. They carried their rifles so that they were openly on display and ready to be aimed at any potential threats while Nathan seemingly only possessed one holstered handgun, and their formation may have been the only giveaway when it came to their chain-of-command – or at least, who had the highest priority.

After several minutes they came to a halt in front of some stairs leading up to a back entrance. He surveyed his surroundings briefly (noting nothing unusual, or so it appeared) before issuing orders to his ‘bodyguards’ in Portuguese; one of them was told to stand watch at the door, the other was to follow him into the building and guard the section of the third floor he would retreat into.

Low security, all around. Or maybe Nathan just didn’t think of himself as a potential target.

The drizzle had turned into a mild but steady downpour, and the dark sky was illuminated by a flash of lighting. He ignored the sigh of the man who’d been ordered to remain outside, climbing the stairs; a clap of thunder rumbling like a cannon in the distance when he closed the door behind them.

 

**AHAB**

 

The route Venom was watching barely had any sign of activity for the moment and Venom took the time to get comfortably prone on the cold ground, surrounded by foliage. The entry and exit points were clear for the next quarter hour or so, before the sound of muffled footsteps floated to his ear. Three men. He quickly marked them without comment, and got on his knees to start shadowing his prey.

The drizzle continued unabated, and Venom followed at a measured pace as quietly as he could. Eventually they made for some sort of abandoned factory that he supposed acted as a makeshift command centre for this outpost. Fortunately for Venom, one of them was tasked to keep watch outside, leaving the two men to disappear into the building. All he needed to do now was -

The third marker was missing.

Venom swallowed, brow furrowing in confusion. He saw two men enter the building and yet his INT scope could only pick up one of them through its lens.

What was going  _on_  here?

The tension returned full force. The only other enemies that he encountered who could shake off a marker like that were part of the SKULLS Unit - and Venom had made sure that that wasn’t a problem any more. Not for a year, at least. Perhaps this new outfit was being led by a former member…?

Venom felt sorely unprepared as he approached the back entrance, grateful that at least the bodyguard outside was only wearing a balaclava instead of a hard helmet. The man went down soon enough with a tranquilizing shot to the face. Before long, Venom quietly went past the entrance, just as thunder struck loudly more than a few paces behind him.

The building was empty. There were a set of stairs heading straight up, and that led straight to where the second marker was. No sign of the third. Venom frowned unhappily and slowly made his way up the steps, only taking action on the third floor when he spun around and saw the rifle-toting gunman examining his weapon.

He went down easily enough too. Venom cocked his tranq gun reflexively as he surveyed his surroundings. He already checked the first and second floor - nothing, except for dusty furniture and remnants of civilian life. The only sound emitting from these walls was [music](https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/i25ry31qqlo6qok/18%20-%20The%20Man%20Who%20Sold%20The%20World%20\(1997%20Remastered%20Version\).mp3) coming from right behind the door the soldier was guarding. It was an upbeat tune and reminded Venom of the songs he liked to play on his Walkman when he was out on recon missions.

A gentle push of the door, gun out first, back pressed against cover - and he was hit by a pleasant floral scent, almost sickly sweet as it invaded his senses. Venom made his way inside warily, eyes narrowing at the confusing sight.

Flowers, with delicate white petals and a graceful arch to their stems filled a number of peculiarly pristine vases. The immaculateness was terribly jarring against the grittiness of the room, and Venom’s head  _ached_  - he’s seen these flowers before. On a side table, too far away for him to reach and no matter how hard he tried to move his hand he couldn’t feel his

hand  
and made my way back home

Venom’s head snapped towards the direction of the sound, recognizing the track. There was a blinking red light coming from the far end of the room and despite himself, Venom entered tentatively as ~~Midge Ure’s~~ _David Bowie's_ vocals and heavy thunder from outside cut through the thick tension. (But wasn't the song sung by Ure, before?) 4

I gazed a gazely stare  
at all the millions here  
we must have died alone.  
  
A long, long time ago.

It was coming from a recorder perched on a waist-level shelf, and the low light made it hard to see, but Venom eventually spotted the mirror mounted on the wall. The music picked up on tempo as the chorus came, and the air smelled of both flowers and cigar smoke. It was _Joya de Nicaragua…_ His favorite.

Venom looked behind him abruptly, jaw set in a hard expression. Nothing there.

Who knows? Not me.  
**We never lost control.**

It was only when he was close enough to pick up the recorder that he noticed the heavy breathing coming from his mouth, the sweat dampening his palms; how pale his countenance was when he looked in the mirror, ( _ ~~you’re~~_ )  _face to face with_   _ ~~the man who sold~~_  himself.

The distraction cost him dearly: Venom spotted a movement from the corner of his vision and he tried to spin around as best he could, but it was too late.

 

**ISHMAEL**

 

This time, remnants of the past – the past of someone in particular – had been deliberately placed in this room, neatly arranged like an old, evocative painting; a still life. Nathan knew that all of the other man’s senses were assaulted in that moment, trying to translate what he saw, heard, smelled, into words and memories that continued to elude him.

All this wasn’t really him. All this had just been left behind for him.

It was strange watching him again, in the flesh – after two years. Nathan remembered that time well enough himself, like it had just been yesterday. The man he’d guided out of the burning hospital looked stronger now, healthier, more  _present_ , and he was sure he could actually pose a danger to himself if he wasn’t careful about how he approached him. He was silent, precise, and cut easily through the outpost, making his way swiftly towards his objective without leaving behind much of a mess. Effective. It filled Nathan with a distinct sense of pride that was perhaps misplaced.

_You grew up to be a magnificent weapon._

But now – without a mark to follow – he was lost again, unsure where he had to start looking, so he gravitated towards the music, the voice he heard. He’d always been a good listener, absorbing the words into himself, aligning them with his emotions and creating context.

He needed to remind him who he was.  _Why_  he was.

His own timing was impeccable. Venom looked on edge, pale, like he’d just seen a ghost – but he wouldn’t see the ghost in the room before it had come close enough to touch. Nathan drifted out of cover and towards him when Venom was distracted by the tape recorder and his own mirror reflection.

Before Venom could react, Nathan already had him by the neck and shoulder, a steel-like grip. He used his own weight and build against him, smashing him into the mirror with cool precision, full frontal. The mirror shattered, and Nathan wasted no time – he knew this wouldn’t be enough to disorient him, so he slammed him sideways against the wall next to the broken mirror, ensuring that the right side of his face, where the shrapnel was, connected hard with the flat surface.

_Close quarters encounters were never actually your specialty._

The track was still playing when Nathan shoved the unresponsive body face first towards the ground covered in shards, tapering off into a haunting instrumental. He collected both of his wrists and twisted them onto his back, the artificial one on top of the flesh one.

That was when he picked up another sound – another voice, and some static. Distant, muffled. He dug his knee into Venom’s spine, using his leg to pin his arms there so he had his own hands free. Nathan shifted his weight forward, leaning down to press his cheek against Venom’s so he could listen.

 _“_ _– you alright? Did something happen? …Boss, respond.”_

Well, that was a voice he hadn’t really heard in a while. He covered Venom's mouth with his palm, just in case. His other hand reached for the transceiver and blindly flicked a switch labeled SEND, before he spoke into the mic at his throat.

“Sorry, Kaz. I ran into some trouble… guy was tougher than he looked. I had to take him out.”

 _“_ _Don’t scare me like that. Did you learn anything?”_

“Not much. He was the leader, alright, but only had a few men under his command, none of them well-trained. I think the group will disperse once they discover his death. I’ll tell you more once I’m back, but for now, you can relay that information to our client.”

_“Alright. Let me know when you want a pick-up.”_

“Will do.”

He flicked the switch again, exhaled. He remained where he was, how he was, lips to his ear.

“I know you’re conscious,” Nathan said. “Listen. I got the intel you want… no, the intel you need. If you’d like to find out who Nathan  _was_ , that is. To your client, this information is no longer relevant.” He reached into one of his pouches, produced another tape which he placed on the ground, in Venom’s immediate field of vision. It was labeled ‘Moby-Dick’.

“This is a DATA tape. It’ll tell you where you need to look, which way to take. But if you’d rather let the past be in the past… then this is where this story ends. It’s up to you. I can’t make that choice for you.”

He squeezed his arm between Venom’s throat and the ground, forcing him into a headlock, and immediately, routinely exerted pressure. The kind robbing you of all breath and conscious thought.

“Now – try to to calm down. It’s all right. It’s all right…”

The song was on its last few notes as he said that, and then the tape stopped.

 

**AHAB**

 

Venom was already braced for an attack when the stranger -  _Nathan_ \- made contact, so he only gritted his teeth when he was slammed face first into the mirror with enough force to shatter it. And it  _was_  fine up until his assailant threw him shrapnel first into the wall.

An exquisite pain  _exploded_  through his head from the impact and Venom gasped wetly, vision dark even though his eye was wide open, slumping down to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut. The pain was so intensely focused on his head that he didn’t even feel the glass shards of the mirror digging into the skin of his face, possibly scarring it more than it already was; his instincts roared and he felt  _fear_  but his hands were being tied behind his back meticulously - he breathed (or tried his best) but couldn’t feel anything other than  _pain_  -

**_“Boss, are you -”_ **

\- and his face was wet because of tears because of the  ** _pain_**  -

**_“- respond.”_ **

Venom fought against his unwilling body, opened his mouth to speak but no sound came. It was only then that the pain subsided just enough for him to be acutely aware of the knee digging into his spine, the weight of a man holding down his arms, the hand cupped over his mouth - his gag - and a cheek pressed intimately to his own. He was trapped.

“Sorry, Kaz,” Venom spoke easily, and -

No. That wasn’t right.

“- I had to take him out,” his voice continued, and - and Venom groaned soundlessly, because he was losing time and that was  _his_  voice speaking next to his ear, out of his body. Continued speaking in fact - reassured Kaz that everything was fine; that he completed the mission and he’d let Kaz know when he needed an extraction.

The silence was deafening afterwards, with the pain still ringing in his ears but he turned his head slightly and he could feel the exhale of the other man ( _himself?_ ) brush right against his own lips as if they were sharing the same breath.

Something about a DATA tape. Something about who  _Nathan really was_. And he found himself in a headlock (like he administered countless times before to others) as the man strangled him almost effortlessly, Venom falling into unconsciousness to the sound of gentle words in his ear and _The Man Who Sold The World_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4 Was it?
> 
> * * *
> 
> [Obtained Cassette Tape (The Man Who Sold The World).](https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/i25ry31qqlo6qok/18%20-%20The%20Man%20Who%20Sold%20The%20World%20\(1997%20Remastered%20Version\).mp3)


	3. 02 - MOBY DICK

**AHAB**

 

The tape was nondescript, of course, under Venom’s examination. Nothing outstanding about it other than the brisk handwritten ‘Moby-Dick’ on one side. A quick hunt for a bit-corder and an MSX machine later ( _“Playing games, Boss?” Kaz smiled, calmer with the success of Diamond Dogs, and Venom returned his amusement. “Something like that.”_ ) led him to an unplayable game instructing him to  **find the white whale**.

It’s been a week since he woke up alone in the abandoned factory with his hands untied and the tape on his lap. The place was wiped clean, with no sign of the flowers, the cigar smoke, the music, the  _man_  who accosted him so thoroughly that he wasn’t given a chance to retaliate. Only the tape and his bruises were left.

Venom ended up keeping the brutal encounter a secret from Kaz and Ocelot, honestly doubting if the entire experience was even real. He remembered what Ocelot told him after the escape from the Cypriot hospital two years ago - how, because of his injury, he was susceptible to vivid hallucinations.

 _Paz_ , from two years ago, ended up being a hallucination.

So until he could trust himself, he’d keep this a secret. Venom opened the door of the helicopter and strapped himself down as he dangled his legs outside, watching the light from the sun setting the Persian Gulf ablaze with bright reds and oranges, with only the silhouette of a massive ship down below interrupting the serene scene.

The best guess he had of solving 'Moby-Dick’s riddle was to seek out a staff member codenamed 'White Whale’ stationed on the Diamond Dogs’ mobile communications relay station: the re-purposed whaling ship  _Heiwa Maru_. It also doubled as their resupply point for Pequod whenever Venom conducted long-term missions in Afghanistan. Venom leaped from the helicopter and waved aside the saluting soldiers after inquiring after his target’s usual station.

White whale in a whaling ship? Seemed straightforward enough for him. If this lead came up with nothing, though, Venom would shelve the episode and force his mind clear from it all. He’s been losing sleep over it ever since Africa and he was beginning to show signs of strain. This –  _distraction_ was becoming unacceptable ( ~~unbearable~~ ).

Venom spotted his prey nesting in a secluded area near supply containers, and stalked purposefully forward. Tried his best to unclench his fist; blank his expression. He  _will_  get some answers - but he needed to stay calm, because these were his men still, and he might just end up doing something he’d regret if he wasn’t careful.

“White Whale?” Venom asked distantly, feeling his lips quirk albeit the hollowness in his heart. “You have a minute?”

 

**ISHMAEL**

 

It was rare enough that the Boss dropped by around these parts (these waters), and rarer still that he talked to the recruits. He was a very elusive creature, after all, much like the whale in that renowned story, and his reputation (his name, his _legacy_ ) preceded him, traveled faster than the man himself. One merely needed to whisper  _‘Big Boss’_  and shipmates from all around the world would assemble and gather under the flag of the infamous, mythological beast, whether they had actually seen him with their own eyes or not. Who didn’t want to be part of a legend that might endure for centuries, a story told again and again?

For soldiers, those that were condemned to leaving no mark in history, buried under the tide of the times, there was nothing more alluring than immortality.

When Whale was approached by Big Boss, he was on his break, off-duty for an hour. He spent his free time on deck without company, enjoying the sea breeze and immersing himself in a book rather than go fooling around with his comrades. There was nothing much to do on this ship otherwise. He looked up and blinked slowly when he was addressed, lacking the naïve admiration in his eyes (one of them milky white, the right one) most other soldiers displayed in the presence of Big Boss – perhaps he did not even recognize him as his commander. He was just another faceless cog in the machine, of no great importance, and outside of his orbit.

But he did seem to know what he was supposed to do, and why he was being sought out today – his purpose. He wordlessly handed the book to Big Boss, a thumb between the pages. A passage was visibly marked, some words and sentences underlined.

 _“Consider the subtleness of the sea; how its most dreaded creatures glide under water, unapparent for the most part, and_ _treacherously hidden_ _beneath the loveliest tints of azure. Consider also the devilish brilliance and beauty of many of its most remorseless tribes, as the dainty embellished shape of many species of sharks. Consider, once more, the universal cannibalism of the sea; all whose creatures prey upon each other,_ _carrying on eternal war since the world began._   
  
Consider all this; and then turn to the green, gentle, and most docile earth;   _consider them both_ _, the sea and the land; and do you not find_ _a strange analogy to something in yourself?_ _For as this appalling ocean surrounds the verdant land, so in the soul of man there lies one insular Tahiti, full of peace and joy, but encompassed by all the horrors of the half-known life. God keep thee! Push not off from that isle,_   _thou canst never return!"_

A minute passed.

“Suis moi,” he then said, clipped, and stood. He did not look back at Big Boss to check if he was following behind him.

 

***

 

He led him down to the dark holds, where the cargo was kept, without speaking another word, and it would have been easy to assume that he was meant to pass secret intel along to Big Boss, so he needed to make sure that the chances of anyone eavesdropping on them was low. Or was there something down here he was supposed to show him, the caught and punished  _whale_ , perhaps?

A heavy door fell shut behind them when Whale gestured him into the crammed storage space, occupied mostly by crates overflowing with war supplies. But if Venom looked carefully, he could spot something else between the crates that shouldn’t be there – a foot, belonging to a naked, bound, gagged, bleeding and unconscious (or was he dead?) body of a man he had probably never seen before.

Just another person.

Whale stepped around to Venom’s side, looking at him, gauging his reaction.

“ _And here_ , shipmates, is true and faithful repentance; not clamorous for pardon, but grateful for punishment,” he proclaimed, his voice unmistakably Big Boss’s own. 

 

**AHAB**

 

The way the book was handed over was cursory, almost curiously dismissive, and Venom felt how the hollowness in his heart grew as he examined the highlighted passages.  _Thou canst never return._ From Herman Melville’s magnum opus,  _of course_ , his mind supplied, even though he couldn’t… Actually remember how he knew that. Gloved fingers rubbed his head, momentarily remembering the savage agony he experienced a week before from the injury to his shrapnel; the whisper of pain as if taunting him for the loss of memory and his doubts.

“ _Follow me_ ,” his mind translated too, and Venom kept his peace as he placed the book down and followed Whale through the narrow confines of the ship without question.

(His gaze betrayed the true question he wanted to ask:  _is this real_?)

He was led to an even narrower doorway leading to one of the countless storage spaces the  _Heiwa Maru_ housed within her sturdy steel walls, once again feeling not at all there within his own body, as if he was simultaneously afar from his body and hyper aware of his surroundings.

He didn’t need direction to spot the bound and broken man in between the crates. Venom’s confusion and unease grew exponentially at the sight, previously carefully suppressed.

At the sound of  **his**  voice ( **again** ), Venom took a reflexive step backwards from what his mind recognized as a  _threat_ , even if it was just cryptic quotes from an intimately familiar voice - “ _Who are you_?” fell gracelessly from his mouth, but he stood his ground even if it felt like the earth gave under his weight. Felt his hand reaching straight for his gun the same way he’d grasp for a lifeline.

 

**ISHMAEL**

 

“ _Who am I?”_ Came Whale’s immediate reply – a counter question that sounded more like  _Who are you?_ Even with Venom assuming a defensive stance and instincts guiding his hand towards the gun, the other man remained calm and unfazed both in posture and tone. His face was still an unreadable blank, wearing the same uniform and balaclava as most of Big Boss’s  ~~meatshields~~ soldiers.

But even if he didn’t, it wouldn’t make much of a difference. The light reached only far enough to paint shadows, some of them in the shape of men.

“You only thought to ask that question now? It didn’t matter before, did it? I showed you where you needed to go – pointed you in the right direction. Am I Whale? Evan? Nathan? Or  _Ishmael?_  What difference does a name make? Or – a title? It can be passed on from person to person. It can be taken from one man and worn like a costume by another.”

He was not yet finished talking as he approached him, knowing that he would never actually draw his gun – he didn’t pull the trigger without explicit orders, and never for his own sake. A hand was placed on top of Venom’s, the good one molding around the false security his gun provided, and Whale used his broad frame and weight to push against him, backing him into a corner, against a wall. He was soft and pliable and confused.

So easy to maneuver, moving smoothly like a ship on calm waters.

“You don’t really feel at peace unless you’re pointing a gun, right? I put that gun in your hand. You don’t want to raise it against me; it feels wrong to you. You aren’t even afraid of me. That’s why you followed me here – why you came back to me.”

The voice was placid and comforting, a steady flow of words. He was close now, flush against him and breathing the same air, his other hand idly stroking along his collar, massaging him with gentle pressure, disarming.

“It would be worse if I was gone. In fact, that would be the worst thing in the world. If you take the whale and Ishmael out of the story, where does that leave Ahab? The pages would remain blank. There would be no words. There would be nothing but silence in your head.” He pressed two fingers to his right temple, drawing small circles underneath the shrapnel stuck in his skull.

“Do you remember what that was like? Those dark, primordial waters I pulled you out of, to show you how to walk, how to think, how to survive? I’ll remind you if I must. Go back to sleep, dream of my voice. When I call for you, you will open your eyes. You are V. You are the blank page on which I write my story.”

And then he rammed his fist against the side of his head.  _Goodnight._

 

**AHAB**

 

_It doesn’t make a difference._

He thought Ishmael had only been a dream, cooked up in the feverish chaos of his mind as he tried to escape from XOF forces; the only explanation he could come up with after having seen no sign of him since.  _You’re talking to yourself_ , he remembered Ishmael speaking, thought it  _was_ himself, and now he wasn’t so sure. Or maybe - or maybe it was still the truth.

The weight was tangible, which shocked him - Venom’s brow furrowed as he was manoeuvred carefully into a corner and against a hard wall, piping digging into his back. He found his gun hand unable to move ( _useless_ ), as if the stranger was siphoning all his strength away with just a carefully placed hand.

And every touch was a promise, luring him into placidity; every word a _tease_  for Venom’s mind because Ishmael seemed to hint at pieces that were already there, right out of reach from his clumsy fingers. Venom was unwillingly enraptured, trapped by questions and in fear of answers.

The truth was being spoken to him, and he was listening. He wasn’t afraid, being held like this, with his instincts muted and his mind blank ready to receive. At peace.  _As if holding a gun. As if I’m ready to receive your story._

Venom’s breath caught in his throat when he remembered where he was, pushing through the fog that settled over his thoughts. This shouldn’t be right. In one heartbeat he was opening his mouth to speak, and in the next the lights went out.

 

***

_You are V._

He woke up to the muffled sound of helicopter blades, blinking rapidly into awareness and quickly taking stock of his surroundings. Photographs of his men, open and cheerful, beamed back at him from the walls. These were some of his most prized possessions for a man who didn’t own anything at all. The ACC.

“Pequod?” he spoke hoarsely, uncharacteristically muddled after sleep, reaching out for a water bottle.

“Sir, good to have you back,” the pilot replied immediately, pleasant surprise in his tone. “We found you passed out near the armoury.” There was a clear question in that sentence, but Venom didn’t answer, so he continued. “You probably passed out because of exhaustion… Don’t push yourself so hard, Boss. Still need you in top shape.”

“Yeah,” Venom acquiesced, resting his arms on his knees, still feeling the phantom touch of a vicious impact against his mind, and gentle fingers against his right temple; his vulnerable throat.


	4. 03 - 1984

**AHAB**

 

_Dream of my voice. When I call for you, you will open your eyes._

No sense of clarity came to him in the coming weeks, with unanswered questions lingering at the back of his mind as Venom threw himself into successive operations week after week. He was careful not to show any sign of his distress, taking tension-filled breaks in between each mission to give the illusion that he was pacing himself. Venom woke up from his first dreamless sleep in months to a clear night sky, eye shifting to the illuminated clock on the side table.

00 47. Venom yawned and moved slowly to the bathroom, door shutting behind him as he bent over the sink and wetted his face. When he looked up into the mirror, a giant poster of  ** _BIG BOSS IS WATCHING YOU_**  was staring right back at him, stuck to the door.

Venom brutally tamped down the feeling of panic welling up in him. He examined the poster stoically, before his bionic hand reached  up to tear it down, the abrupt movement divulging the state of his mind. There was a note was taped down behind, composed in the same handwriting that addressed him on the DATA tape from before.

_"You asked me once,” said O'Brien, “what was in Room 101. I told you that you knew the answer already. Everyone knows it. The thing that is in Room 101 is the worst thing in the world.”_

Nothing more than that. Venom turned the note carefully in his fingers and thought about his previous encounters; how personal they were; how close to home the blows always hit. He only laced up his boots this time and didn’t bother with a shirt, hooking the radio into his ear and a handgun near his hip, making his way to his destination.

He knew the answer already, of course. It wasn’t long before he was on the ground floor of the Command Platform, pushing open the door that held Mother Base’s very own Room 101.

 

**ISHMAEL**

 

Room 101 was the place where broken people were sent so they could be fixed. Where madmen became sane. Where those who bore hatred for their fellow man learned to love again.

And in order to do that, you first had to betray yourself. You had to understand how far you were willing to go in order to save your own skin, even if you could save nothing else. Being alive and needed was more important than being able to think or feel for yourself.

Someone, somewhere, was humming to himself. To the tune of a song, maybe.

_Never again will you be capable of ordinary human feeling. Everything will be dead inside you. Never again will you be capable of love, or friendship, or joy of living, or laughter, or curiosity, or courage, or integrity. You will be hollow. We shall squeeze you empty, and then we shall fill you with ourselves._

When Venom entered the torture chamber, windowless and only dimly lit by red lights, a hundred faces were staring back at him – no, it was the same face, a hundred times; a gigantic grimace with shadows for eyes staring straight into his soul.

 **BIG BOSS IS WATCHING YOU!**  
  
**BIG BOSS IS WATCHING YOU!**  
  
**BIG BOSS IS WATCHING YOU!**

The walls were plastered with the posters Kaz had once commissioned, leaving barely an inch uncovered. He was everywhere, watching every corner, all hiding places forfeit – the ‘Big Brother’ of the battlefield. The only anomaly in the pattern was a single different insignia between all the posters on the opposite wall, displaying a big, red V, the shape filled by a pair of shaking hands; one black, one white. The lettering underneath read [**INGSOC**](http://i.imgur.com/HC8St6x.png).

Below that were three more embossed lines, in capital letters.

 **WAR IS PEACE**  
  
**FREEDOM IS SLAVERY**  
  
**IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH**

Once the door had fallen shut behind him, Venom would find that it would not open again; it had been locked from the outside. Nobody was there – right? No spies, no double agents, no moles, nobody who had a grudge against him… and certainly nobody who would intentionally want to lock him up in a soundproof interrogation room until the morning hours, just for the sake of a prank?

The lights went out, all at once.

And then, for a long while, there was nothing. Just the sound of a distant hiss, and the stale air.

It smelled sweet, cloying, like decomposing flowers.

 

**AHAB  
**

 

He knew the ending of  _1984_ : at the end of it all, everything was alright, and the struggle was finished, and Winston had won the victory over himself, and he loved Big Brother. Venom couldn’t see the light at the end of the tunnel for this story, staring into the unabating darkness with the feeling of cool metal on his back as he worked to conserve his strength.

He already tried finding an escape route, even knowing that the work was futile. Diamond Dogs’ attention to detail meant that if anyone was shut in here, nothing short of outside intervention would let them escape, which was why duty for Room 101 was always in pairs.

Air was running low. He was losing time, again, and it unsettled him how at peace he was with that. The gun was useless in here; his communication was jammed so his radio came up with nothing - not even static. He was deaf and blind. The sensory deprivation combined with slow suffocation was going to fuck with his mind and he  _knew_  that, but.

The cloying scent grew stronger and weaker at intervals, before he couldn’t even smell that anymore, and by then he knew that the air was saturated enough with whatever they were pumping into the room. He tried his best to stay as far away from the distant hiss, even if it was delaying the inevitable.

 

***

 

And hours, decades later, the inevitable was this: Venom pressed tightly against the closed exit, running out of air, seeing dead soldiers of a bygone era at the corner of his vision, smelling pages and pages of old books and Stars of Bethlehem, hearing the high whistle of bombs dropping. The Pacific? No - Vietnam?  **No**  -

_France?_

_“Get on the back, but be careful to not spook anyone. You have to be quiet if you want to stay.” I didn’t understand the soldier. He sighed, and placed a finger on his lips, and said,_ _"Tais-toi, s'il te plait."  
_

_I nodded._

Venom nodded, and shook his head. That wasn’t right. He was dizzy from air deprivation, compounded by the general mental exhaustion culminated over the past two months, and what he suspected were hallocinogenic chemicals being pumped into the room by air. He pressed again against the door, and slammed his palm furiously against it when a gentle push didn’t work. He tried it again, and again.

_“How is it?”_

_“Huh? Oh. Pretty good.”_

_“You’re finishing that pretty fast.”_

_“It’s a second reading. Some of the new recruits got ahold of Animal Farm and asked me about it, but this one is my favorite Orwell.” I smiled and you smiled. Or was it the other way around? I don’t think it mattered._

And again, and again, and again. He was sweating, and his hands were clumsy, but he roared and hit his shoulder against the door; slipped and slid down to the floor. The darkness shrunk. There wasn’t anyone there.

_White flowers, in his vase. But before that - a shadow, right behind the curtain beside his bed - or did he imagine that? He blinked slowly, but then it was gone. The nurse put white flowers in his vase. The kind he loved._

“Boss,” Venom mumbled deliriously, but he wasn’t thinking about The Joy of the battlefield that he snuffed out in the fields of Rokovoj Bereg. What he saw was a strong, broad back against the Caribbean blue, always facing forward, always moving. “Boss,” Venom repeated desperately, because that wasn’t right. He should be in front, why wasn’t he in front? Fear was lodged deep inside of him; he couldn’t bear it. Unconsciousness was right around the corner, but he fought to stay awake, because  _he should be in front_.

 

**ISHMAEL**

 

_And then, you heard a voice._

_Was someone speaking to you, or was it all in your own mind? It sounded like you – or at least, you thought it did. You’re not sure what your own voice sounds like, because you know that other people will always perceive your voice differently than you do. You’ve only ever heard your true voice when it was played to you from recordings, and recordings, much like the written word, are susceptible to time. Noise will fill the blank spaces between the lines, and phrases will be cut up, or overwritten with static._

_Before long, the original meaning becomes unclear, and it is up the listener to create context based on what they know and remember, to reinterpret what was said._

_You thought that this must have been your true voice, untainted in the hollow silence you were trapped in. It reminded you of a time when your eyes had been burned by the sun, plunging you into the darkness. You were calling out to a man – a man, not a woman. In the shadow of that man, you had been born. You were irreversibly connected to him, and the path he walked. He stood tall and unafraid in the light, always looking ahead, facing the sun._

_He was a proud man, the captain of a ship harboring outcasts. He told you, once, that he would strike the sun if it insulted him._

_Much like you, he was a warfighter. He was intent on carving his own path, and leave his own mark in history._

_But soldiers are not the ones to leave behind any proof of their existence, you knew. Their names and faces were irrelevant, forgettable. They lived and died for their cause, their country, their leader._

_History is always, and only, written by the victors._

_History –_

_His story._

_You know it well, don’t you?_

_A long time ago, you remembered, he asked you if you had ever thought about writing your own story. You hesitated, before telling him, “Not really.”_

_Whether it was because you didn’t have the time, or thought that no one was going to read it, or were lacking ideas – you were convinced that there was no point in writing a story of your own. You would rather read other people’s stories, and absorb them into your consciousness, looking for a reflection of yourself in the blank spaces between the words._

_You wanted to see how his story ends. That was when you stepped to the front._

_I am the narrator of this story, but I am also you._

_You are the protagonist of this story, but your voice, your thoughts, and your actions are mine._

_Always remember that, Ahab. The worst thing in the world –_

_Is misinterpreting your own story._

**AHAB**

 

_But I didn’t need to **see**  how your story ended. As long as it wasn’t cut short right then, Boss, that was fine by -_

A hand on his shoulder and he blinked away his unconsciousness, staring up into concerned liquid eyes.

“Kaz?”

“Welcome back.” Kaz patted his shoulder carefully as Venom sat up, rubbing his head with the afternoon sun warming his room. He was back on his bed, in his room - was everything from before a dream? That final part - was that he talking to himself, then?

_The worst thing in the world is misinterpreting your own story._

“You never sleep for this long, Boss. Is there something wrong?”

“More tired than I thought I was,” Venom answered plainly, and Kaz was about to protest until Venom squeezed his good arm in reassurance. “That’s all to it, I promise. Did you need me for something?”

Kaz examined him carefully, and took note of the weariness under Venom’s eye, and shook his head. “No. It can wait till you’re fully rested.”

“I’m already up,” Venom countered immediately, and got up smoothly. A quick glance at the mirror told him he didn’t look any different from yesterday, save for fading bruises on his shoulder; his palms - easily mistaken for things he got from the field. Not from being trapped inside an interrogation room for hours on end. Had it been a dream?

“I’m fine. Have you had lunch?”

He felt physically fine. But his mind was fraying, slipping through the cracks between illusions and reality. His heart  _ached,_  as if he was missing something that didn’t exist.


	5. 04 - LORD OF THE FLIES

**AHAB**

 

The African sunset illuminated his back as Venom made his way through the savanna with light-footed steps, long shadows cast upon the ground hidden by the tall grass. The terrain was alight, and it was on **fire**  with harsh reds and ghastly yellows. Venom continued his hunt with unerring focus, keeping his breath measured.

There was a sense of tranquility in being reduced to a predator. That evening he was a snake in search of another snake: a ’ _basilisco_ ’, their client called it, in the imperialist Portuguese that used to sink its claws into the heart of Angola. Of course, basilisks were a myth: the client was possibly looking for a subspecies of the rare  _bitis heraldica_ , a venomous viper species found only in this part of the world. Calling it a basilisk was an overstatement - documented captures were never past sixteen inches - but sometimes the savage wilderness made beasts more than they really were. The client was earnest.

So all Venom needed was a location. The area was a little ways off where he usually conducted the bulk of his missions, so he was unfamiliar with the landmarks except for those marked on his iDroid. He crested the hill easily, peering into the shallow valley ahead.

The valley was dead.

 

***

 

Everything was blackened. Everything, absolutely _everything_ was burned to the ground - embers long gone, which was why Venom hadn’t spotted any sign of smoke. Just a shadow of what used to be a smoldering wreckage. It rained recently, so the soot squelched disgustingly under his boots as he made his way to the epicentre. Disturbing signs, here and there, indicated that once it might have been home to a village. There was a lone stake in the middle, skewering a monstrous pig’s head covered in flies; a shoddy patch over a sunken eye.

The smell was awful. Venom wrinkled his nose as he approached the horrendous arrangement, spotting a pristine note attached to the beast’s rotten tongue. When he opened to read it, the mouth dropped open in a macabre grin.

_Fancy thinking the Beast was something you could hunt and kill!_  
_You knew, didn’t you?_ _I’m part of you?_ **_Close, close, close!_ ** _I’m the reason why it’s no go?_  
**_WHY THINGS ARE WHAT THEY ARE?_ **

The tiny patter of bare feet thundered all around him, and Venom turned with his heart drumming fiercely in his ears: with the night time sky, it looked like an amalgamation of faceless humanoids descending upon him. The last of the dying sun flickered over their faces, and Venom realized they were children.

**_“PIG BOSS!”_ **

It was a collective, harrowing shriek, and Venom staggered from the hatred, almost losing his footing in the slippery terrain. Unwilling to hurt, Venom fell under the swarm pushing him into the mud, suffocating him, tearing him apart  _but he didn’t want to hurt these were children just children **he didn’t want to hurt**_  –

 

***

 

**ISHMAEL**

 

Darkness descended on the African horizon, painting the sky the same shade of black as the scorched earth – this was the world’s natural state, he thought; darkness was not the opposite of light, it was simply the absence of it. All life must grow up in the darkness, sheltered by it, from the seed planted in the soil to the embryo in the womb, before it can become strong enough to step into the light.

They lit a bonfire in the night, a few clicks away from his current, elevated position, where he turned off the engine. He reached behind himself, fishing for something in the saddle bag to light a fire of his own. He drew the smoke into his lungs before it coiled towards the sky, dispersing into air smelling like carbon and singed skin.

Some turf wars had recently been unleashed in the region, fought mostly in and around villages. Scare tactics. Marking territory. Executing civilians before they had a chance to join the opposition or one of the PFs in hopes for revenge. Nobody really cared too much about a few hundred casualties in the grand scheme of things, if they were even taken note of at all. Pillage and burn, like they never existed to begin with.

Sometimes young men – children in the eyes of the civilized world – would return home to find it completely burned down to ashes, together with the friends and family they had tried to support in a life where every day was reduced to raw survival. Some were scooped up by lingering adults to be fed into the war machinery, others tried to make it on their own, banding together to become stronger than the sum of their parts.

Strong enough to hunt the beast they blamed for their misery; a mysterious, _evil_ entity surrounded by many stories and rumors, passed down to them by their elders. They had never seen it with their own eyes, but they were convinced that it existed, a thing to be feared, lurking in the grass and behind rocks and under your bed.

And it wore an eyepatch. They called it ‘ _Nyoka monéne ’_ in their native tongue, which they thought translated to ‘Pig Boss’ in English, words they’d caught being swapped back and forth frequently among foreign soldiers.

_Traga-me o basilisco. Você acha que pode?_

Ishmael already knew how this hunt would turn out. He wondered if Ahab did, as well.

 

***

_It is the blazing heat of the flames lapping at your face that rouses you from your slumber, so torrid that you think, for the fraction of a moment, that it might just burn and peel off your skin. You awaken to the press of a sharp blade against your throat, and incessant, irate chanting in a language you do not understand, invading your consciousness._

_All you can make out, between the grimaces and gibberish, is the name they have given you. You are a pig to be slaughtered and incinerated, a savage boar. To them, **you** are the worst thing in the world._

_You are on your knees. Your arms are bound, your weapons are gone._

_Even though you can speak, you will not be heard. The children do not understand your language._

_What will you do?_

 

**AHAB**

 

_FIGHT AND SURVIVE._

This close, the heat felt like hellfire, but the feel of cold steel was what rapidly brought Venom to awareness; made him ram the enemy in the chest with his shoulder, blindly; sent it sprawling. A pained, childish cry reverbated from the prone figure, sharply cutting through the unintelligible voices. Venom barely had any time to think about his mistake - a  _child_? - before the chant grew in volume. He scrambled back from the scorching heat, pushing back against the small hands feeding him into the fire, trying to breathe in the cool night air.

The rest of the children around him leapt back momentarily from his display of aggression, and from what he could see they were staring with accusing eyes barely visible from the dark soot rubbed into their skin, as if rubbing the ashes of their families brought them closer to their sorrow. They looked at him with a familiar wrath/thirst only present in those who lost everything: those looking for vengeance.

“I’m not who you’re looking for,” Venom tried, but the children advanced, teeth bared - they didn’t understand him. He thrashed against the ones trying to crawl over him, throwing them off the best he could. “I don’t want to hurt you!”

 _The children advanced_ , and Venom couldn’t see it before because the shadows from the fire obscured their hands, but they had weapons. Too big for their hands, and yet they slashed at him wildly, calling him a pig because that was the only English word they knew, and Venom jerked up and away from the ferocious slashes, away from the fire where they were planning to sacrifice him. No matter how hard he pushed them away, they just kept returning, as if recognizing his weakness.

**_FIGHT AND SURVIVE._ **

Venom tested his bonds, found that with enough time he could have his hands free - but there wasn’t enough time. He yelled when a sharp cut to one of his legs tore through his battle fatigues, and dark blood spilled down the fabric. The kick was instinctive and threw the boy who injured him off to the side, but he got up and grinned, shouting about the revelation to his friends: their Beast bled like any other pig. What use did they have for fire when they could just tear him  _apart_?

The cuts grew in number, and Venom could only take so much before he lashed out blindly, but nowhere near his full strength, especially when he knew that he could accidentally break their bones. His true capacity for violence was frozen by the chains of civilization. He still had half a mind to _think: I can’t. I can still run away_. Venom got back up on his feet, and attempted his escape, managing a few feet away from the raging fire, fighting his way through the crowd. Still, it was to no avail against the growing frenzy: an intense pain flared up his leg right then, making him stagger and fall back onto the dirt, and he saw a knife sticking out of his thigh as if his body was a pincushion made out of flesh. He wanted to laugh.

**_FIGHT AND SURVIVE, V._** 1

The cold steel was back on his throat, but now that he knew who the enemy was, his efforts were weaker than how it should be. Venom growled against his own savage instinct to kill ( _his own voice?_ ), turning away from the violence, keeping a tenuous hold on his sense.  _Not like **this**._

 

**ISHMAEL**

 

The roar of a beast cut through the night, disrupting the strange ritual and commanding attention. It was the sound of an engine being revved; mechanical, predatory thunder, and the children instinctively – much like prey – stopped dead in their tracks.

They only had two seconds to try and make sense of the situation, not like it made much of a difference – the darkness spat out a vehicle, and it was speeding towards Venom and his juvenile executioner. Before he could react, the heavy motorcycle hit him hard, like a freight train, and he was knocked a few feet aside like a rag doll. It was a miracle that he still moved after that, having survived the impact; gargling something in an attempt to lend his pain a voice.

Not for long. Unsure what to do or what was happening, the kids were shouting at each other, shouting at the rider who put on the brakes, dismounted his machine, and carelessly let it drop.

He went to pick up the boy he’d just rammed by the throat, scrambling for consciousness, leverage, and the knife that he’d lost his grip on. It was taken by a larger hand before he could reach it, covered by a fingerless leather glove.

The kids shouted again, sounding more frantic, furious. The man stood tall, took a few steps towards the fire, and suddenly there was dead silence. The injured boy struggled weakly in his grasp.

“Botolinga makilá?” He asked serenely, in a voice and a language they knew.

He brought the knife up to the child’s jaw, stabbing it into his jugular vein until the skin tore, slashing across his throat in one clean cut. Blood gushed from the wound like a waterfall, his friends shrieked. The body was carelessly tossed into the fire.

 ** _“BOTOLINGA MAKILÁ?”_** He repeated, louder; a dark, feral growl. He brandished his crimson knife. The children panicked, some of them dropping their weapons as they scattered into the night, intent on saving their own skin before they would be devoured by the basilisk.

Or his evil twin spirit.

Once they were gone, he sighed. His broad and imposing figure painted a dark silhouette against the bright fire, providing a stark contrast. He flung the knife at the flames, and it got stuck in the bloodsoaked earth next to the head of a dead, burning child.

“If they want a beast, you give them one,” he said, sounding exasperated. “Do you really think you can save them all? Don’t delude yourself. They have already died once, together with their villages. And this war? We both contributed to it – and continue to do so. Your sacrifice won’t change anything.”

He turned to face Venom, who was still laying on the ground, and walked towards him in slow, measured steps. In front of him he lowered himself to a crouch, examining his injuries briefly. Although they were all superficial and harmless, he gave a disparaging grunt at the sight – especially the knife still stuck in his thigh.

“Or maybe we’re not on the same _page_ yet,” he drawled. “Your life is more important than theirs, more important than those fickle morals you’re still clinging to. You have a cause, a purpose to serve. A story to finish. If you haven’t understood that… then perhaps you’re not ready. You were doing so well up until this point.”

Another sigh – disappointed, this time.

“Nevermind. Go back to sleep.”

Two gentle hands wrapped themselves around Venom’s throat, bearing down on him.

 

**AHAB**

 

This man was a monster wearing a human skin.

Venom barely even moved as he witnessed the savagery in front of him, listened to the words as if it was a lesson to be learned, about - what? The man ran over a child, slit his throat without flinching. Threw him into the fire like he was nothing more than meat. Talked to Venom as if he was in the wrong here.

He was  _disappointed_.

Venom was shaking, but not from fear. He didn’t fear monsters. He was done with these games; being compliant,  _placid_ ; being the victim - watching, waiting for a reason that never came,  _why, why, why._ The monster crouched, and wrapped bloody gentle hands around Venom’s throat.

It told him to sleep.

**NO.**

An inhuman roar tore itself out of Venom’s throat as he grabbed the hands around his throat and tugged them away, having loosened the rope enough to yank his hands free. His legs kicked himself forward he pulled the knife out of his own thigh, using adrenaline and fury to barrel into Ishmael/Nathan/the Devil. Did he want blood?

**YES.**

Venom snarled viciously, stabbing the knife into the man’s right shoulder, pushing him backwards with his entire body weight. “ _No **more**_.” He pushed the blade further in as he repeated his words, louder, voice guttural and beastly: mirroring Ishmael’s earlier growl.  ** _“NO MORE.”_**

**_GIVE ME YOUR BLOOD._ **

If there was a lesson to be had about being a beast, Venom embraced it. Deep down he was nothing more than a cur to the bone. He knew _that._  Venom used the moment of disorientation to straddle the man and press his arm onto his throat, but the rage in him was suddenly replaced with blood-curling shock at the sight of the monster’s face, illuminated by the bonfire.

His  _own_  face.

Venom jerked his head away, shock giving way to unadulterated panic. The voice in his mind changed tracks from fight to flight, telling him to  _run._

 

**ISHMAEL**

 

_There you are._

He’d be lying if he said he had expected this counter attack, because he hadn’t – and oh, it did infuriate him, this momentary loss of control, the fact that this man had the audacity to raise a weapon against him after all. He’d saved him from the angry mob of abandoned, savage children, just like he’d saved him two years ago, taking a knife to the same shoulder ( _twisting it_ ) and then setting the unbidden assailant on fire because his other half had been **TOO WEAK**.

And now he blamed him. Blamed him for the death of someone else. Wasn’t that ironic! _Hilarious_ , he thought, even when Venom slammed into him and threw him to the ground, giving him no opening to retaliate because it happened way too fast.

 _No more, no more, no more_. How often had he pleaded that, himself, but his voice always went unheard, was stifled by the other monsters when they forced the air out of his lungs. Just like the one above him was doing, mind and senses overtaken by sheer, unbridled rage. He knew that rage, festering at the core of your being, nurtured by years of abuse and begging to be let out.

His shoulder was on fire. His fearful heart skipped a beat.

He barked a laugh, even as he was being choked, hands grasping at the arm restricting his breath. Stared right into his eyes – _eye_ , his mirror visage contorted by fury, and his own face felt hot. So close to the flames. So close to burning himself.

So close.  

_Don’t lose that expression._

But he did lose it, within a couple of seconds, unable to hold onto this emotion once he was hit by a realization – once he _recognized_ the monster he was strangling.

And the monster was himself.

The monster was Big Boss.

Venom was paralyzed (heart and instinct at odds), the pressure minimal, and Ishmael seized the opportunity, throwing his weight around to throw him off and drive his fist into his ribs at the same time, reversing their positions that way.

“I told you not to do that!” He scolded him, but somehow he sounded jovial. Somehow he managed to laugh at all this. Weren’t charades usually funny?

“But I see you’re awake after all. I was starting to lose hope, Ahab. Everything – “

He crawled on top of him, straddled him, pinned his waist to the ground. He mirrored his earlier actions: pressed his arm into his throat, while two digits of his other hand where caressing the right side of his face, finding and pressing against his temple the same way they had back on the _Heiwa Maru_.

Right there, where his brain was vulnerable.

“ – Will make sense very soon. Just be patient for a while longer.” He paused, increased the pressure, lulled him to sleep.

“Listen to my voice – you want to believe. You want to calm down now. Everything is just the way it should be. This feels like home. This is where you belong.”

He leaned down to whisper into his ear, “Dessous de moi.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 OR YOUR STORY WILL END.


	6. 05 - THE MIRROR IN THE MIRROR

**AHAB**

 

Humanity as a whole has debated about the question of the self since its infancy. Not everyone dabbled in this, of course: there are those who never felt the need to question who they were, carrying on with their lives imbued with the purpose they were given. Most of those who were good at either fulfilling orders or those at the forefront of a cause tended to fall in the second category. _I am a soldier. I am a mercenary. I am a revolutionary._ What need was there to question this?

Venom’s no philosopher, but he always considered himself to be cut from the same cloth. He was a soldier. He was a mercenary.

He was Big Boss.

“I am Big Boss,” Venom tried again, speaking to his image in the mirror in his bathroom, and he laughed darkly, because it was the first time he had to question it.

It was currently a couple of days after the encounter with his doppelgänger, and he had scarcely thought about anything else since.

 

***

 

_Venom woke up fully dressed in a new uniform, wounds tended to, with all of his equipment returned. His mind was blank as he contemplated his consciousness and the reality he was forced to confront. It was all too easy to dismiss the whole affair as a nightmare, but Venom already said he was done running._

_No more, he’d said._

_He brought up his iDroid, racking his head for an explanation for his absence. Ocelot's voice filtered through the comms almost immediately, but he seemed unconcerned._

_“You need a pick-up, Boss?”_

_“… Yeah,” he replied tentatively._

_“Don’t worry, we’ve got Pequod on standby, so make your way to the LZ whenever you’re ready. Miller already briefed me on the overnight stay. Did you get the, uh, ‘basilisk’?”_

_The lie came distressingly easily to him. “No. It’s a pretty wide area to cover, but there’s no signs of it I could read anywhere. There’s been some conflict in the surrounding region, so…”_

_“It might’ve been spooked,” Ocelot finished, clicking his tongue. “Shame. I’ll let Miller know and he’ll deal with the client, so head on home.”_

 

***

 

Two days later, and he was standing in front of his sink, just trying to breathe. Venom couldn’t bear to look at his reflection anymore, so he turned to his unfurling fist, which revealed an oft-read note containing yet another passage.

He’d found this one lovingly wrapped around the combat blade he always kept pressed close to his back, the one he used to threaten soldiers into betraying their comrades. He didn’t recognize the origin of the excerpt.

_When it comes to controlling huMan beIngs, there is no betteR instRument than lies. Because you see, humans live by beliefs.  
And beliefs can be manipulated. The pOweR to manipulate beliefs is the only thing that counts._

The irregular letters spelled out  **MIRROR**. Venom looked back at his reflection for one last time, and emulated the dark look he’d seen on Ishmael’s face when revealed in the fire. Venom could remember every detail, and mimicked it the best he could, almost perfectly in fact: but it didn’t feel the same.

 

***

 

A second retreat to his bedroom later that evening uncovered another note waiting on the bed. The font was typewritten as if to promote clarity for its unreadable script.

 **_fprEyJ rwI GzrKqEx. Ww KwL'Ms tAuv KvzE nrI, wK'E isFIK FqDv Kv ymvK trom KF trom. ZK'G Kuuv wCI KwL KC CqiIE Hyq BILHy. Pw PFI KtqEB MFG'zv IsrpG?_ **  
  
**_dvsK ym rK Hyq LvMwC'E PFLGv. ZmOK AFzBy, Nvvz GFL oEp GFLF Dqv yrJv KwLI rrK www. hNA-nFLF-QqzF-QsIA. gFL'zC nm FLH sqkrLGv KwL CwBq AFDs rxwEv Hzym EFK rzl KysE, tCEKwEs nFI zFoiC NwCptzws. gmzKzsJ ImIv BvHmI IsrxtP PCLD ByzBx._ **  
  
**_Zw yvoMK EvrDFzA. REr uAv'K vJvz ByzBB mjFLH sDqExwEs jrty-LB wI JsKFqEx o KDiG FF Z'xt BECN. Zw IrrzA kFDALzqtrHzAv NzHy KwLI lfE, mzKvvD. JLK MFG'Dv ssvz oFFr rnwLK yvqxzEu HGqvK GF riI, yoMqv'K PCL?_ **  
  
**_YiBv Av BzFLr, m. U EzCz Jqm PFI JAwE._ **

Venom thought back to the other note about beliefs, before searching for a piece of paper and a pen.

 

***

 

He’d never bothered to backtrack to the Ngumba Industrial Zone after his encounter with the Man on Fire that brought about a collapsed tunnel, blocking the entrance. ( _His name was Volgin_ , his mind supplied with a little delay, and how was it that he never questioned how difficult these things came to him?) Venom made his way through the canyon pass, unsure if he would even be able to access the destination given to him from the decrypted Vigenère cipher:  _Nzo ya Badiabulu._

Venom had already burned the paper containing his solution to the code, but his mind remembered its contents clearly. All he had to imagine was Ishmael’s voice giving him the instructions.

 _Thanks for playing. If you’ve come this far, it’s about time we meet face to face. It’s time for you to learn the truth._  
_Do you think you’re ready?_  
  
_Meet me at the Devil’s House. Next month, when you and your men have your day off. Two-four-zero-zero. You’ll be out because you like some alone time now and then, hunting for local wildlife. Parties were never really your thing._  
  
_No heavy weapons. And don’t even think about bringing back-up or setting a trap or I’ll know. No radio communication with your XOs, either. But you’ve been good about keeping quiet so far, haven’t you?_  
  
_Make me proud, V. I will see you soon._

He did everything that was asked of him. Venom still didn’t have a clear reason why he did so without much protest. Or was his mind just making that up, fearful of the truth?

Ishmael said to  _make him proud._

The surrounding area was absent of Rogue Coyote mercenaries. In fact, it was absent of any sign of life, eerily quiet despite the dark hour, as if they were driven out by a dark, otherworldly force. Before long Venom was standing in front of the tunnel, and a quick check of his flash light revealed that some of the debris was cleared out, with fresh motorcycle tracks in the dirt leading in.2

He followed the trail like a man possessed, the enclosed space of the tunnel making his breathing louder than it actually was. Eventually he came to the light at the end of the tunnel, realizing that - no, the faint light was actually coming from the building that previously housed Skull Face’s foul experiments. His steps became lighter; his heartbeat humming with anticipation/fear/anticipation. With how dark everything was, Venom felt as if he was floating in the endless sea, fast approaching shore.

By the time he had a hand pressed against the entrance, it was two-three-five-nine.

 

***

 

**ISHMAEL**

 

The voices had been silenced for a while, now, and yet the compound remained closed-off after it had been burned down to the ground. Nobody wanted to upset the evil spirits again, so that tunnel was better off blocked, anyway. Whatever had been going on on the other side – the local mercenaries weren’t too keen on finding out, after all the stories they’d heard, so they collectively, and entirely subconsciously, decided to never speak of it again.

In their minds, it did no longer exist. It had become an obstructed path, a dead end, the edge of the world.

For Ahab, these were dark, uncharted waters, and mankind’s inherent drive to explore their depths (and stare at the reflection on the surface) brought him there that night – the promise of enlightenment, of a future he did not have to fear.

And the past reflected in the future, endlessly.

_Don’t look back. Look forward. Keep going._

The brittle substance of the building had endured the unbalanced battle raging in this place less than two years ago, but Venom’s struggle for survival – his effort to escape this hell alive had left its marks, carved deeper into the structure by the weight of time. The door, covered in ash and grime, was pushed open easily.

Like an invitation.

The inside was lit, illuminating altered memories.

 

***

 

_The place you have entered looks the same as it did two years ago, and yet it does not. You follow the trail of caked blood and rust on the ground, towards the flickering lights shining into the hallway, and find yourself in a passage – a maze made out of black, singed curtains, and adust, empty beds._

_Your path is lined with countless vases of white flowers and grave candles._

_A[soft tune](https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/qa6siwvnngsdkcg/07%20-%20Spiegel%20im%20spiegel.mp3) plays in the distance, but you cannot make out any words. You gravitate towards the music, and as you walk, the lights casting your long shadow against the ragged curtains, you realize that there is only one right way._

_You have no trouble finding it. Every step feels natural to you, as if you are making your way back home._

_You come to a small enclosed room, and you walk towards yourself. There is a single bed, and a nightstand next to it. On the nightstand is a large mirror showing your reflection, a book titled ‘ The mirror in the mirror. A Labyrinth', another small vase housing fewer of those pristine flowers, and a running cassette player, the source of the music._

_This bed looks intact, upon closer inspection. It’s also not empty. There’s a small blue notebook resting between the sheets – no, it’s a passport, issued in the United States of America._

_You look inside, flipping to the first page._

 

***

“Est-ce que tut te souviens maintenant?” Asks the voice, coming from behind Venom – his own voice, the one that has been haunting him for the past few weeks and months, sounding out words that, he knew, were intimately, distressingly familiar. It continued in the same placid, soothing tone, and the music ( _two instruments accompanying each other, two is all you need_ ) kept on playing.

“Qui tu étiez? Quel est ton rôle?”

The mirror in front showed the same reflection twice, but one was altered.

 

**AHAB**

 

Venom moved exactly as the narrator described, of course. His previous encounters have all been carefully dictated, executed by an invisible hand ( _gentle on his throat, on his temple_ ); moments of his own autonomy too far and few in between.

The appearance of his double almost made Venom stagger, before he forced himself to keep still and look down at the document in his hand, managing to catch a glance of his own expression then. He was far too pale, trying hard to push through the fear in his mind to see this story through. One page at a time.

The contents of the passport’s first page were sparse, the print informing him of a number of things:

 _WARNING: ALTERATION, ADDITION, OR MUTILATION OF ENTRIES IS PROHIBITED._  
_ANY UNOFFICIAL CHANGE WILL RENDER THIS PASSPORT INVALID._  
  
**NAME:** NATHANIEL SAUVETERRE  
**SEX:** M  
**BIRTHPLACE:**  CALIFORNIA, USA  
**BIRTHDATE:**SEP. 1 1932   
**ISSUE DATE:** APRIL 14 1980  
**EXPIRES ON:** APRIL 13 1986

Venom pursed his lips at how his mind tried to overwrite the facts, tracing over the name. The passport holder’s picture showed a fairly handsome but mostly nondescript man with dark brown hair and blue eyes, and he’s - seen those eyes before. He looked up, and then towards his double.

The Big Boss behind him was the same, different. He didn’t have any shrapnel embedded in his forehead; his face was clear of the scars that littered Venom’s own visage. He felt a sharp relief at that realization, strangely enough, amongst the complex and muddled emotions churning in him. What terrified him about it was how genuine he felt that relief, coupled with a sense that he was returning to where he belonged.

_In front of him. In front of him; need to get my feet moving, Paz is already outside of the helicopter but I’m not reaching for her because I’m reaching for Boss, because it’s my role to make sure he lives and I have to be his shield and I have to -_

_I have to -_

_I have to make this right._

_The flare was bright, sickly, burning into my skin. My eyes were blinded. I thought: This was enough for me._

“Oui,” Venom murmured thickly, barely realizing he wasn’t speaking in English - why was it so hard to breathe? - before closing the passport. He turned on his heel, but kept his distance, resisting the unbearable urge to approach him. His eyes were flickering wildly over Boss’s face, taking in the differences. The similarities. “Je me soviens.”

Was this the truth that he suffered for? Venom felt simultaneously hollow and full, the paradox apt considering how his mind tried to process the existence of two Big Bosses.

 

**ISHMAEL**

 

That was the answer he’d been hoping for. Not just in terms of meaning – but language, too. He responded to his native tongue, hadn’t forgotten it despite having forgotten everything else about himself.

Hadn’t forgotten his _home_.

Big Boss watched him curiously, both hands buried in the pockets of his jacket, his stance relaxed, signaling that he wasn’t looking for a fight. He expected his own placidity to be naturally reflected in Venom, though he could also read all those subtle nuances in his expression, giving away his confusion. His broken mind was hard at work, trying to stitch itself together, fitting new pieces into the cracks.

“That’s a forgery, of course,” he said, referring to the passport. “I used it for a while. Only the name and the face are – _were_ real. All I had to do was shave. Funny, huh?”

The blanks had been filled in by the identity that had been created for him decades ago, when The Boss had brought him back to the States, though for everything he didn’t know about his past, he did know that this wasn’t his. He hadn’t been born in California or in 1932. He didn’t remember much about his past before she’d started calling him Jack except for people speaking in a language he didn’t understand and the smell of paper burning.3

But none of that had ever mattered. For neither of them.

Big Boss lifted his right hand, extended his index finger, pointing upwards, as if to nonverbally tell him to pay attention now.

“The truth is this, V,” he said, then paused for a couple seconds before the next finger unfurled, joining the other to form the shape of a **V**.

“There are two of us. There have been two Big Bosses ever since you woke up in that hospital in Cyprus. But before you were Big Boss, much like me, you were someone else. That man you were before died in 1975 – and you know how, don’t you? He died protecting his commander from an explosion, using his own body as a shield and absorbing the blow. As a doctor, he considered that to be his most important duty – saving another life.”

As he spoke, Big Boss reached for the book, and pulled out an old photograph from between the withered pages, presenting it to him. It was the one that was usually tacked to the wall in the ACC, showing three people. The far right side of the picture was white, folded over for some reason, even now.

“ _Militaires Sans Frontières_ … you remember that, the day we took this photo. Morpho, Kaz, me…” His thumb flipped the corner over like a page, revealing the whole image. There was a fourth person, the one Big Boss was resting his weight on, the same face as in the passport.

Both of them were smiling.

“You.”

 _It was right here, in front of you. You looked at this photo often, en route to your next mission, reminding yourself what it was all for, why you pushed yourself so hard. But you never felt the urge to check who the missing person was, like it wasn’t important. You never felt like reaching out, smoothing it over_ _even though you care for your men and keep photos of them all._ _Isn’t that right?_

After a few seconds, Big Boss flipped the entire photograph over, to show the other side which was blank.

Or would have been blank, if someone had not written on it with black ink, in familiar handwriting.

 **Good Luck**  
  
**Nate**  
  
**\- “Vic” Boss**

“It happened a week later, the night when I went to rescue Chico and Paz,” Big Boss continued to explain, placing the photograph aside, on the nightstand. “I survived, but fell into a coma. The following nine years we slept side by side. I dreamed of nothing, but you dreamed of my voice.”

_You heard me screaming **no** , over and over. You heard me asking **why** , over and over. You heard me crying **Boss** , over and over. You heard me pleading **enough** , over and over. You heard me cursing the **world** , over and over._

“We dragged you back out of hell so you could finish your mission.” He stepped forward and reached out, pressing his fingertip into Venom’s forehead, between the eyes. Pushing ~~into~~ against him.

“After nine years, we gave birth to another Big Boss. Your purpose remains the same in life and in death: _‘Protect Big Boss’_. You became my phantom… my afterimage. Your mission is to keep me and my legend alive. That, you always felt, is the right thing to do – and to do the right thing, you have to remember your past but let go of it at the same time. You need to acknowledge two conflicting truths, right here. You’re Nathan, Big Boss’s most trusted soldier, but you’re also Big Boss himself. You’re Big Boss, the legendary soldier, but you’re also not the only one. There’s two of us, and this is our story.”

He let his hand drop, and produced an antique zippo, tossing it over to Venom.

“You know what to do.”

 

**AHAB**

 

Revelations hurt.

Or: they usually did, when one was a prophet chosen by God. This revelation didn’t feel at all like Jibra'il embracing him until he couldn’t breathe, telling him to ** _READ_** , trying to comprehend a force greater than himself, no: Big Boss’s words fit perfectly in the spaces in his mind, and Venom received it with a clear head contrary to the fog haunting him for months. Footnotes to help him understand.

The Devil’s words were always easier to welcome, after all.

He looked again at the photo. The smile Nathan wore was almost guileless - laughable, really, considering how they contributed to the war machine in their own ways. Venom stepped a little closer. Wanted to touch, but - this was a life that was so far away removed from what he actually knew, that Nathan might as well be a familiar stranger. (A familiar stranger whose name made his palms shake. But did it matter much if he remembered nothing about his life before 1984 save for saving his savior? No.) His lips quirked when Big Boss flipped the photo over to show the message. He barely moved when the fingertip touched the space in between his eyes, though he shivered, leaning in slightly.

 _Oh, yes, yes._  He remembered. The doctor in the ward showed him this photo, and he kept it. Forgot about it. He couldn’t remember a lot of things about the hospital, other than there was a light, and that light was Ishmael, and that he couldn’t speak until the man said: _Okay Ahab, time to go!_

Venom shelved that memory as something he'd made up to cope with the stress. He wondered if dismissing it was foolish, and wondered again if some of the things he did were already scripted and he was meant to do that, anyway.

Scripted or no, Big Boss clearly wanted him to take the initiative with this one. And Venom did know what to do. How could he not? Boss spelled it out for him quite clearly.

_“The man you were before died in 1975.”_

_Not quite,_  Venom thought privately, knowing that he would cease to think about this soon enough. He flipped the lighter open and watched the flames flicker over the passport he was holding. The room was filled with the smell of burning paper too quickly and he tossed it to the bed. Despite himself, Venom watched the fire intently, and felt almost as if he was back in front of the raging blaze that had turned his men into ashes.

He  ~~was supposed to feel~~  felt nothing. This was what he was supposed to do. Nathan would have wanted this.  ~~Nathan~~  was dead and V lived.

_Now he has._

 

**ISHMAEL**

 

Big Boss took another step forward until he and Venom stood side by side, and watched the fire slowly eat away at the pages of the passport, forged from two separate identities, two men that were dead and had been for a long time. He closed his eye for a moment and thought back to his favorite song. Tried to futilely recall another time when he had laid his life to rest and buried his past, a story lost not even to history, but to obscurity.

_We’ve always felt the need to document our identities and lives, as if we are compelled to forget about them if we don’t have physical proof of it to hold onto. In writing, recordings, photographs… human existence is transitory. No one lives forever. We all want to leave behind something to prove to future generations that we have been here, and done our part to make this world a better/worse place. I want to be remembered, even when I am no longer there, like a phantom limb._

_You remembered me._

He cast Venom a sidelong glance, studying his (own) scarred, Grecian profile. This man they had raised from the dead, who he’d made into a person once more, after his own image – who’d given up his own life in order to extend his – would help him achieve memetic immortality.

_There’s two of us. Even when one dies, the other will live on. We have two arms, two legs, two eyes; they can function independently, compensate for the other missing half._

_But we have only one heart, and one mind._

Big Boss took the discarded photo from the nightstand and tossed it on top of the passport on the operating table, watched it being engulfed by the flames, turning black and erasing the image it held. Then he removed the three Stars of Bethlehem flowers from their vase, setting them down next to the small, crackling fire, in remembrance; their petals started to darken.

“I’m sorry for deceiving you for so long,” he said after a minute of silence, the knuckles of his fingers brushing against his. “But even with your mind molded into a perfect copy of mine, there was no way for me to know how you would react. So I chose this approach, to help you remember – a close reading, I think you call it. But I also know what you’re thinking in this moment – why tell me now? It’s like I said.“

His fingers curled gingerly around Venom’s wrist, a tender, loose grasp, squeezing it. But he could feel it still, pulling him closer.

“We need to be on the same page if we want to change the future, write a different ending to our story. We have to work _together_. You understand? If we don’t, the world envisioned by Zero it will become a reality. But I want to make my own heaven. I won’t let him control me, or my future. That’s why – you had to become aware of your roots. I know it’s difficult for you right now, but I know you’ll be able handle it. You’ve handled everything else so far, and I’m very proud of you. I was watching you every step of the way. I’m always with you, wherever you go.”

Big Boss let go of him to turn towards the nightstand, the cassette player. The music had stopped playing at that point, and he pressed ‘Eject’. He removed the tape to hold it in front of Venom, flipping it to side B.

“There’s another message for you here. Listen to it when you get back to Mother Base. We can’t be together like this in the future, but… we can still speak to each other. Keep the lighter too, and this book. I thought you might like it. It’s a collection of short stories, by the same author who wrote ‘Neverending Story’.”

He put the tape on top of the book, handing it to Venom, an elusive smile on his lips.

“I guess you don’t read much anymore though, hm? That’s alright. Here – we don’t have much time. You need to go back. Thank you for coming here and listening, V. Do your best, and don’t forget – I am you, and you are me.”

_Just look into the mirror whenever you want to see me._

 

**AHAB**

 

 _It’s alright_ , Venom wanted to say, believing it.

He was closer to Big Boss at that moment, having been pulled earlier by a gentle hand around his wrist - the same one that cornered his pliant body in the bowels of the  _Heiwa Maru_ ; the same one that threw him to the wall, aiming for his shrapnel. The same one that wrapped itself around his throat. But his heart felt steady as he listened to the voice. It was… Just what it was. Wasn’t it?

( _He knew, then, that Big Boss could do anything to him and he would still be - he would still be alright with it._ )

The touch to his wrist was incredibly comforting, so much so coming from a man who was so rough with him before - Venom almost stumbled after his Boss when he eventually let go. It made him privately embarrassed. The gifts were a welcome distraction - he gripped them tightly in his hands, keeping them close. He felt strangely grateful for them, and realized that it was strange because he felt these emotions so strongly. Big Boss might have sunk his claws deeper in him than he realized.

That was fine.

“I am you, and you are me,” Venom echoed dutifully, feeling his lips pull into a small smile when he got it down perfectly, all the way to the intonation. He looked down at the tape and the book and the lighter, eye already turned away forever from the makeshift funerary pyre on the bed. His future was somewhere else, as someone else.

“I’ll always remember. Thank you for telling me.” Was he about to leave now? Venom wanted to watch for as long as he could, especially if they couldn’t be like this again in the future. His head followed Big Boss’s movements away from him, and his mouth opened without his permission. “Wait -”

He stopped immediately, confused at his outburst. Why did he feel so upset?

 

**ISHMAEL**

 

Big Boss brushed past him, considering that the end of their little tête-à-tête – he’d said everything he needed to say while being face to face with him. Everything else between them would be remote and clandestine correspondence. Exchanging thoughts and issuing orders, to make sure that they were in sync at all times. Point out mistakes in Venom’s performance too, should it became necessary – but Big Boss didn’t think that would happen very often, if at all. He had Kaz and Ocelot guide his decision-making, and they had known Big Boss perhaps better than anybody else, with and without the mask. Better than Nathan, anyway.

He would be fine. Or so he thought.

“What is it?”

He stopped, looking back at him over his shoulder, spotting their reflections in the corner of his vision. Two plus two. Four Big Bosses in total, but how many were really there?

“Oh, I see.” He chuckled as something occurred to him, something that would occur to any man that got to meet his doppelgänger, and not just in a dream. He’d thought about it before, and now that Venom knew the truth, he probably thought about it, too.

_For all the times that you didn’t feel like reaching out, you definitely want to reach out now. This is not just a photograph, a distant, fleeting memory. This is reality, right in front of you, and you can touch it during these moments only, before it’ll be gone again._

Couldn’t blame him. Who knew when they would meet again, if ever? Big Boss pivoted on his heel and stepped back towards his double, canting his head as he considered him. He was still an inch taller than him, he noted idly; the eye in its socket not the right shade of blue.

“This is terribly vain and self-indulgent, you’re aware. But curiosity gets the better of us all, so there’s no need to feel ashamed.”

He pressed two fingers against Venom’s bristly chin, tipping it downwards. They stroke along his jawline, then, until his calloused, leather-clad palm cupped the right side of his face. His own gaze wandered over his features until it arrived at his mouth, then he closed the remaining distance between them. Pressing one pair of chapped lips to another slightly parted one, and he found that they fit against each other perfectly, drawing the same air into their lungs.

His natural scent and taste were a mix of blood and gunpowder.

He tilted Venom’s head a little more.

 

**AHAB**

 

A sharp intake of a breath at the first touch of their lips and Venom all too easily fell forward, deepening the kiss with a keening whine at the back of his throat, a pitch higher than usual. His eye slid shut. His heart hammered so loudly in his ears as he opened his mouth, letting Boss take what he wanted, almost trembling. (Or was it Venom all along, taking what _he_ wanted?)

“ _Boss,_ ” he murmured reverently against his mouth, shutting out the thoughts in his mind that tried to whisper that this wasn’t what he meant, exactly, when he asked him to wait. (This was better. It  _felt_ better. It felt _really fucking good_.) From one deft movement he pocketed the lighter, leaving him free to grab the hand cupping his face, dragging the fingers up to press into the spot near his shrapnel. He couldn’t begin to explain why that comforted him, but there was no need to feel ashamed, right? That was what he said.

_No, this wasn’t…_

This was. Venom licked into Big Boss’s mouth roughly, ** _deeply_** , counterpoint to the quiet way he pressed their mouths together, thrilled at the way they fit. _He doesn’t have a scar on his lip like me._ (Self-indulgence, vanity, curiosity. Big Boss was right, of course he was.)  _He tastes of blood and gunpowder - like me._

_Like him._

_ Marquez moi.  _ A fleeting thought, but one that echoed deeply in his mind, his shoulder throbbing curiously as if triggered by the words. The grip on Boss’s hand tightened. He panted wetly, surprised at his own enthusiasm, probably embarrassing himself with how messy he was being.

He couldn’t care less.

 

**ISHMAEL**

 

_But of course this was what you meant, you realize, now that you are caught in a kiss with him. You have been aching for this sort of intimacy with a person you feel you can trust, and who can you possibly trust more than yourself? _

Big Boss indulged him, for a while – opened his mouth, let him moan into it and call his name, sharing a wet, messy kiss with him; one that driven by an underlying sense of urgency and almost primal _need_. He didn’t remain passive either, pushing against him and claiming his hot mouth just as much, unabashedly, exploring it. His tongue ran over the rows of his teeth before he sunk his own into Venom’s marred bottom lip, hard, but not hard enough to draw blood. He chewed on the tender flesh, and then he licked over it lazily, pulling away from him with a heated, amused chuckle – both his mouth and the hand Venom had taken into his own to plant it on top of his fractured skull.

Well, that was… something.

“I didn’t know I was _that_ good at French,” he quipped, with a narrowed eye and a shit-eating grin. He patted him on the shoulder – a reassuring, encouraging gesture perhaps, who knew.

“If a little pent up. It’s fine to let loose once in a while if you keep it on the downlow. Your men aren’t going to complain – believe me, I know.”

Then he made his second attempt at leaving, successfully this time.

“Keep in mind what I told you about beliefs,” he said, making that his parting words. “By manipulating them you can keep your men in line more easily. Let ‘em see what they want to see. It doesn’t take more than a few words, a kind gesture or two. Imagination is the only weapon in the war against reality. We’ll talk again, V.”

He pulled the curtain in front of him aside, walking back into the maze, into the shadows; his path lined by bloodstained, wooden operating tables and rusted IV poles.

 

**AHAB**

 

It was a curious kind of terrible loss to have Big Boss separated from him, but he kept still, because he was made to handle it.

There was a finality in Big Boss’s actions that indicated to Venom a second try would be rebuffed, so he stayed his hand even as his heart strained to be closer again. He gave a lopsided smile at Big Boss’s grin, if a little uncertain, and left his aching shoulder alone. The same one he touched.

The parting words burrowed deep, and before long Venom was left alone with his thoughts and the gifts. Manipulation compounded by imagination, huh? The advice was probably meant for his companions back in Mother Base, but… He looked at the tape and the  _'_ Mirror in the mirror' Big Boss left him, simultaneously hyper-aware of the zippo in his pocket. Venom touched his lower lip, where he still felt the aftermath of the kiss sinking deep.

He  _responded_. Was that a manoeuvre by itself?

Did Venom care?

His heart sang, and he used that feeling to shrug off any remaining doubts; kept his private thoughts locked up for his mind to overwrite later. (Except, maybe, for the way the kiss felt - his selfish hands grasped around that memory so tightly he couldn’t bear to part with it.) He waited for the faint rumble of a motorcycle engine to disappear before he went into the darkness himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 I did that on purpose. If you had bothered to look around, you would have also noticed helicopter skid marks – but you didn’t want to keep me waiting, did you?  
> 3 And sometimes, come to think of it, a place called Heart Mountain.
> 
> * * *
> 
> [Obtained Cassette Tape (Spiegel im Spiegel)](https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/qa6siwvnngsdkcg/07%20-%20Spiegel%20im%20spiegel.mp3).


	7. X1 - CHECK YOUR IDROID FOR DETAILS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art by [Marr](http://ironfries.tumblr.com/). Cross-posted from [here](http://ironfries.tumblr.com/post/132544529401) and [here](http://ironfries.tumblr.com/post/132147205431).


	8. 06 - VOICES CARRY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER 2: VENENUM
> 
> (Episodes 06 - 12)

**AHAB**

  
His journey back to Mother Base was strangely mechanical, with Venom only realizing halfway that he hadn't actually managed to do what he said he would: hunt. But what mattered more was that the book was safely tucked away in one of his bigger pouches, with the tape and lighter kept in his jacket's inner pocket near his heart.

As the chopper approached the helipad, it was obvious that the world decided to give him a break for once - most of the Diamond Dogs were still at the party since there was no one to receive him on the command platform save for a pair of soldiers. No doubt Ocelot and Kaz were keeping an eye on their men, so he would only see them in the morning. That was time enough for him to snap out of his daze.

 _Daze._ Venom blinked, corridor, and he blinked again, and he was suddenly in his room, DD licking his palm for attention. With his Walkman out, Venom fished for the tape and popped it in by way of Side B, taking care to listen to Big Boss’s voice only through his headphones.

(There’s a second or two of static before the recording clicks on. The flick of a lighter can be heard. Pause. Someone exhales.)  
  
“Hello, Ahab. If you’re hearing this, it means we’ve made contact not long ago, and that you’re now aware of who you are. This message contains sensitive information, so make sure to overwrite it once you’re done listening to it. You don’t want anyone asking questions or spreading rumors. Anyway, here’s what we’re gonna do.”  
  
(Another pause, another lazy exhale.)

Inhale. It was only by years of ingrained military discipline that Venom even managed to place his equipment down in an orderly manner, reflexively shrugging out of the straps with minimal effort and focus. Big Boss's voice only returned by the time he bent over to unlace his boots.

“Your mind will inevitably attempt to overwrite the knowledge you’ve just gained – erase the contradiction from your conscious thoughts because it conflicts with your concept of reality and internal timeline. The… therapy was very effective and thorough, in that regard, to make you believe you’re the one and only Big Boss. Your brain is gonna try and push me out, like a foreign body, or a parasite… In psychology, it’s called cognitive dissonance, meaning you’ll forget about me again in order to cope with the mental stress. And that’s fine, for the most part – it’ll make life easier for you if you don’t have to second-guess all of your own actions or put on an act. But what’s important here is that you remain able to access the discarded knowledge of my existence whenever it becomes necessary. It’s similar to Doublethink… everyone knows that two plus two equals four, but sometimes, V - sometimes it’s also five. Or three. Or all of them at once. It’s what Ocelot practices. Deep down, in the hindmost corner of his mind, he’s actually aware that you’re not the real Big Boss… but he’s locked that particular fact away for now, so he’s not just pretending whenever he interacts with you. He has his own ‘keys’ that won’t rust no matter how much time passes, but for you it’s going to be more difficult, because… your imagination likes to play tricks on you, doesn’t it? Feeling like you can’t trust yourself at times? That shrapnel still stuck in your skull did quite a number on you, or so I heard. So I’m gonna help you distinguish reality from hallucination, to ensure you’ll remember things right. To keep your memory of me alive.”  
  
(He stops talking for a moment, sighing. Something creaks as he shifts his weight.)

Boots, gloves, shirt, lights off. Venom stared at the dimly moonlit ceiling fan, prone on his bed. DD jumped beside him then and settled against his side. He hardly had the heart to push him off.

At least what was being said answered some of the questions he had about his companions back in Mother Base. He just wasn’t sure what to make of it yet. (Will he even have the capacity to make sense of it in the future, if his mind kept overwriting itself?) But that question slipped away too as soon as the recording continued, Venom’s eye sliding halfway shut as he shifted his head on the pillow, getting comfortable.

“This tape you’re listening to – we’ll be passing it back and forth. I know you’re not much of a talker, but I’d like you to verbalize your thoughts and feelings for me. Think of it as a diary. Add a song you’re fond of at the time or that you listen to a lot to side A – that will also make it look like mixtape, should a third party get their hands on it. Side B is where your message goes, overwriting the old one. It doesn’t have to be anything elaborate or deep. Talk about how your last mission went, your general mood, your… zoo… whatever comes to mind. Get it off your chest. Put your thoughts into words for me to receive. I’ll do the same, of course – I’ll overwrite your message, and tell you about my own…”

 _Thoughts_. _Dark._ And Venom inhaled deeply, hearing his voice fading into static for a time, just as the world ceased to exist.

 

**ISHMAEL**

 

_“ … dreams. I’m gonna go mad in here, and that thing over there doesn’t help.”_

_“John, it’s only been a few days. Yes, I’m aware you don’t like hospitals, but at least try to be patient? We’ve got to make sure your condition’s stable before we move ahead with anything… and I have to mobilize my contacts. You know how long that can take – ‘til everyone’s on the same page. And you heard about that Soviet airliner too, right? The incident’s drawn a lot of attention by the media and neighboring countries, so we got to be even more careful _–_  can't jump the gun now.”_

_Voices without static filter into your consciousness, close but not too close. Two men, both of them familiar. The steady and persistent beeping noise of an ECG right beside you._

_“Well, at least you got a plan. Didn’t come up with it yourself though, did you?”_

_“John – “_

_“I’m not stupid. This place is crawling with Cipher personnel. That doctor?”_

_The sound of paper hitting a hard surface._

_“I’ve read about him. You really mean to tell me that a world-class plastic surgeon good enough to remodel an exact copy of my face **and** mess with someone’s vocal cords to sound just like mine would conveniently be working at a small army hospital on Cyprus, without it making the news. We’re talking one-of-a-kind outstanding in his field here, Adam. Somebody helped you cover that up. And that’s not even mentioning the training he must have received in order carry a gun with him. Pretty strange for a civilian doctor.”_

_“What do you want me to do?”_

_“Nothing. Just – one thing, I guess. I’m through these.”_

_“More TIME magazines? How did you get through that pile so fast?”_

_“No, I’m done catching up with the real world. Why don’t you bring me a book or two, I don’t know, something more entertaining.”_

_“I didn’t know you’d taken an interest in literature. When did that happen?”_

_“Long story. I had a lot of time on my hands with Kaz taking care of business.”_

_“I’ll see what I can find. …I don’t suppose I can get you interested in movies, you know, some novels do actually get adapted – “_

_“That's not the same. There’s a world of difference between reading words and seeing a picture, moving or not.”_

_“Alright, alright, I get it. That much hasn’t changed in nine years, huh? That’s actually oddly comforting. Anyway, I’ll talk to you again in a day or two – about **your** plans, too. If you’re worried about that.”_

_“Right.”_

_Footsteps, getting louder. The jingle of spurs. They stop briefly, then they move towards your location._

_“Did you… unhook his headphones?”_

_“Do I look like I can walk?”_

_“With you, I’m never sure… probably just one of the nurses. You wouldn’t believe how hard of hearing some of them can be. Maybe I should brush up on my Greek. That brunette one in particular never gets things –“_

“ - right, it's me.”  
  
(Silence.)  
  
“Talk to me. Let me hear your voice.”  
  
“It's been 5 years, 72 days, and 18 hours.”  
  
“You've lost weight.”  
  
“You can tell just by the sound of my voice?”  
  
“Of course I can. I know all about you.”  
  
“Really. Well, I don't know anything about you.”  
  
“What's that supposed to mean?”  
  
“Why'd you disappear on me all of a sudden?”  
  
“I was on a top-secret mission.”  
  
(Silence.)  
  
“You didn't need me anymore.”  
  
“But there were still so many things I wanted you to teach me.”  
  
“No. I taught you everything you needed to know about fighting techniques. I taught you all I could. The rest you needed to learn on your own.”  
  
“Techniques, sure. But what about how to think like a soldier?”  
  
“How to think like a soldier? I can't teach you that. A soldier needs to be strong in spirit, body, and technique - and the only thing you can learn from someone else is technique. In fact, technique doesn't even matter. What's most important is spirit. Spirit and body are like two sides of a single coin. They're the same thing. I can't teach you how to think. You'll just have to figure it out for yourself. Listen to me, Jack. Just because soldiers are on the same side right now doesn't mean they always will be. Having personal feelings about your comrades is one the worst sins you can commit. Politics determine who you face on the battlefield. And politics are a living thing. They change along with the times. Yesterday's good might be tomorrow's evil.”  
  
“Is that why you abandoned me?”  
  
“No. It had nothing to do with you. I already told you, Jack. I was on a top-secret mission. A soldier has to follow whatever orders he's given. It's not his place to question why. But you're looking for a reason to fight. You're a natural born fighter, but you're not quite a soldier. A soldier is a political tool, nothing more. That's doubly true if he's a career soldier. Right and wrong have no place in his mission. He has no enemies and no friends. Only the mission. You follow the orders you're given. That's what being a soldier is all about.”  
  
“I do whatever I have to do to get the job done. I don't think about politics.”  
  
“That's not the same thing. Sooner or later, your conscience is going to bother you. In the end, you have to choose whether you're going to live as a soldier, or just another man with a gun. There's a saying in the Orient; ‘Loyalty to the end.’ Do you know what it means?”  
  
“Being... Patriotic?”  
  
“It means devoting yourself to your country.”  
  
“I follow the President and the top brass. I'm ready to die for them if necessary.”  
  
“The President and the top brass won't be there forever. Once their terms are up, others will take their place.”  
  
“I follow the will of the leader, no matter who's in charge.”  
  
“People aren't the ones who dictate the missions.”  
  
“Then who does?”  
  
“The times. People's values change over time. And so do the leaders of a country. So there's no such thing as an enemy in absolute terms. The enemies we fight are only in relative terms, constantly changing with the times.”  
  
(Silence.)  
  
“As long as we have ‘loyalty to the end,’ there's no point in believing in – “

_“ – bullshit. Nine years of this and I’m surprised your ears aren’t bleeding. I'm sure you're far too gone by now to make sense of any more words, anyway. So I’ll put on some music for us instead. I think you liked Bowie too, well – Nathan did. But now you’re me, so I guess it doesn’t really matter…”_

_Someone’s fumbling with something, plastic scraping over plastic. Click. An audience cheers. Music plays from loudspeakers._

This ain’t rock‘n’roll. This is genocide!  
  
As they pulled you out of the oxygen tent  
You asked for the latest party  
  
With your silicone hump and your ten inch stump  
Dressed like a priest you was  
Todd Browning's freak you was  
  
Crawling down the alley on your hands and knee  
I'm sure you're not protected, for it's plain to see  
The Diamond Dogs are poachers and they hide behind trees  
Hunt you to the ground they will, mannequins with kill appeal  
  
(Will they come?) I'll keep a friend serene  
(Will they come?) Oh baby, come unto me  
(Will they come?) Well, she's come, been and gone  
  
Come out of the garden, baby  
You'll catch your death in the fog  
Young girl, they call them the Diamond Dogs  
  
The Halloween Jack is a real cool cat  
And he lives on top of Manhattan Chase...

_The song fades out. Cut. Static._

_“ – kind of glad we got this thing between us.”_

_A voice again, to your left. Curtain rings clatter softly against a rod._

_“’Cause… I’m not sure if you’re aware – probably not – but you tend to stare at me. A lot. Then again, maybe I’m just thinking that, and you’re really looking at nothing. Or out the window...”_

_A sigh. Pause._

_“You’re awake, right? You hear me, but you can’t… no, that would be…”_

_The voice becomes a soft, unintelligible murmur. Music burrows inside you._

Here's to you, Nicola and Bart  
Rest forever here in our hearts  
The last and final moment is yours  
That agony is your triumph...

_The song fades out. Cut. Static._

_Footsteps. Heels click against the linoleum floor._

_“ Παρακαλούμε να επιστρέψετε στο κρεβάτι.”_

_A female voice. She sounds agitated._

_“Right… no need to get the – ”_

_“Instructions were clear. You go outside of room, I lock door.”_

_Silence. The woman leaves the room, the door falls shut. Silence._

_A grunt. Bare feet against the ground, moving away from you. The quiet squeak of mattress springs._

_“I really can’t wait until I get out of here. Who does he think he is… keeping me locked up ‘for my own safety’? To pacify me… Feels more like I’m his prisoner. First he takes away my base, and then my remaining autonomy to do so much as move around until things are ‘ready’. That’s just like him though, isn’t it. I better lay low and play my role in his grand plan, or else!”_

_A dry, humorless chuckle._

_“Guess he expects me to be grateful that he hasn’t killed me yet. This whole mess regarding XOF and ‘The Patriots’ or whatever he’s named it is his damn fault to begin with. All he ever cared about is that he gets to use the title of ‘Big Boss’ for his own purposes, and I – can’t – believe I’m actually going along with this.”_

_A soft thud. A minute or two pass._

_“You know, as pissed off as I still am about what happened 9 years ago, I’m just… really glad I survived. Hah – if my men could hear me now… I really thought I wouldn’t make it. And that was the first time I ever thought that. I don’t really feel alive unless I’m staring death in the face, but – Christ, I was terrified. Trapped in that metal coffin with nothing but the fire in front and the ocean below me. It’s fuzzy still, but I remember how you – how **Nathan** entered my field of vision. I remember holding onto his shoulder and him falling on top of me, knocked back by the blast. I thought that was it. And for him, it was…”_

_Silence._

_“Why am I talking to myself…”_

_Click. A song starts playing._

All around me are familiar faces  
Worn out places  
Worn out faces  
Bright and early for their daily races  
Going nowhere  
Going nowhere  
  
And their tears are filling up their glasses  
No expression  
No expression  
Hide my head I want to drown my sorrow  
No tomorrow  
No tomorrow  
  
And I find it kind of funny  
I find it kind of sad  
The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had  
I find it hard to tell you  
'Cause I find it hard to take  
When people run in circles it's a very very  
Mad world  
Mad world  
Mad world  
Mad world...

_The song fades out. Cut. Static._

_“You don’t mind if I smoke in here, right? I mean, I know it’s a non-smoking ward but the last time I left this room one of the nurses almost caught me. Good practice, though. Guess I’m still a bit rusty. Eh, who am I kidding… I can’t even properly work out in here.”_

_The flick of a lighter. Inhale, exhale. Silence. Silence. Silence._

_Silence._

_“Hmm. You really would’ve liked this, I think. It’s written for children, but it deals with some pretty heavy themes. It’s about this boy who’s running away from his problems, losing himself in this book and the world inside it and… somehow he actually enters it and gains the power to fulfill his own wishes. But for every wish he makes, he loses one of his own memories, and it’s pretty grim. I’m not sure I get it yet. Maybe once I finish it, but let’s be honest, you were always much better at explaining these things. A little wordy at times, but… Well, let’s see what else Ocelot got me, huh?”_

_Someone shifts, moves around._

_“ Temple of the Golden Pavilion. I’ve actually read that one before. The guy who wrote it – Yukio Mishima, he had some pretty interesting worldviews, and it shows in his writing. Kinda extremist, but I don’t disagree with everything. I think Kaz was actually there when he committed seppuku, trying to rally up the JSDF into overthrowing the regime… restore the empire of Japan to its former glory. He was obsessed with the inherent aesthetic of war and ritualized suicide in the name of it. Even had his own private army…”_

_Sounds of some pages idly being flipped through._

_“I really want to read books like this in the language they were originally written. I’m pretty good at picking up languages, doesn’t take me long to get a basic grasp of them. But even with Kaz around, Japanese never seemed to stick with me somehow. I don’t know why…”_

_A heavy sigh. Silence._

_“I’ll just... put the music back on, okay? Not like you’re gonna object...”_

_Click. Upbeat music plays._

I LOVE YOU　届いてこの想い  
きっといつかは叶うよね  
こんな気持ちせつなすぎるの  
  
始まりなんてわからないの  
名前も平凡でどこにでもいそう  
でも何万人いても私きっとキミを見つけるよ  
  
素直なキモチとじこめ  
殻にこもった自分がイヤで  
気のないフリするそのたびにただ痛みが増えてく  
  
キミは何を願うの？そばにいてほしい  
ずっとずっとそれだけなのに（ドキドキ・・・）  
  
恋の抑止力  
ほらGAMEがはじまる  
見つめあえばわかるでしょ？  
はじまりのベルが鳴る  
  
LISTEN TO MY HEART  
声にならないこの声  
とめて恋の抑止力  
伝えたい私のすべて・・・

_The song fades out. Cut. Static._

_Porcelain shatters. A man growls. You hear him pace back and forth, cursing under his breath._

_The beeps of the ECG come in shorter intervals._

_“Like I give a damn! Every time I wake up there's more of -”_

_A loud bang, knuckles meeting a hard surface. Another vase is smashed onto the ground, breaks._

_“This isn’t a tomb. This isn’t my **grave**. It’s only been a week and I already can’t stand this dead **silence**. It feels like I’m – like I’m choking on my own rage. Like all words are slipping away from me as I’m trying to hold onto them like sand, running through my fingers. I’m not dead yet, so why…“_

_He yells at you._

_“And you! Why won’t you say a fucking word?! Your eyes are open but you don’t see! What kinda drugs did they pump you full of that you’re completely numb to everything!? It’s like you’re dead but not. It’s like you’re **there** but not. And it’s been that way for years and years and years – caged away inside yourself – if it was me, I’d probably – ”_

_The voice shrinks, moves away._

_“ – probably – “_

_A creak. A croak. The voice is almost inaudible._

_“ – I’d probably want to die.”_

_You listen to muffled sobbing, for how long, you do not know. But it feels like forever._

_No music comes._

_Then there is silence, and it stays._

 

***

 

AHAB

 

He’s trying his best but it’s not enough.

But then it was as if a switch was flipped, and for the first time in forever he was hearing heartbeats instead of static, instead of voices, instead of music. The pulse ran _louder_ , and **louder** , and louder before he realised it was his own and it wasn't long after that he could comprehend light streaming through his eyes.

His eyes watered. It was unbearable - the light was coming from his left, but as if by instinct, his head moved towards it rather than turning away.

There was - a curtain? A shadow behind it, in the faint shape of a man. He couldn't remember feeling his mouth open, but he did know that he tried to speak. No words came, and he tried again, hearing nothing but his drumming heart.

The shadow disappeared.

He tried again. A woman came and blocked his view; still he tried again. Why was he so quiet? It was _agony_ , where was he? With consciousness came no comprehension, and he dazedly moved his head towards the right, only making himself dizzier. Was that more music? He tried to sift through his cotton head for anything he could remember, but his most recent memory was of shattering porcelain and neverending silence. The tears in his eyes overflowed, and his cheeks became wet. Why was his heart so upset?

The woman returned and she went.

He went.

 

***

 

They made him go under _twice_. They asked for his name, which he couldn’t remember, so he panicked but they managed to calm him down until they told him he'd been in a coma for nine years. That was the first.

The second was because of his arm.

He barely looked at the good doctor upon the third time he awoke, though he did turn his head when a small mirror was held up. Strangely enough, at the sight he wanted to laugh a little: he looked _terrible_ , unkempt hair and beard in dire need of a trim, scars scattered all around his skin. The doctor continued speaking.

Then, as he did: the image in the mirror flickered to a stranger's face wearing his eyes.

Then, as he stared: the stranger whispered to him, gently, with a terribly hollow voice that mirrored his heart: _" On ne voit bien qu'avec le cœur."_

_What?_

By the time he realised that he understood what was being said, the doctor took the mirror away, and unwrapped the bandages around his unseeing eye. Two photos were shown, and he just knew that they were overwhelmingly important - he lifted his hand to grab them before the doctor could store them away. He flipped the photos.

He dropped them.

He didn't have time to think then, because it was as if time skipped: the nurse was dead, the doctor was dead, and he was on the floor, scared and confused, unable to move _closer_ to the god damned gun. His vision tunneled when the assassin moved around the bed and picked up the weapon instead.

The rage that built up within him took him by surprise, but should it really? He fought so fucking hard to stay alive ( _to wake up_ ), and to die, like this ( _silent, unknown_ ), staring straight at the wrong side of a gun because he was too weak to fight, paralyzed by fear - it was _unbearable_.

In place of his lost voice, his soul screamed. And that was when an angel leaped onto the assassin's back, saving his life.

He watched the scuffle unfold, uncomprehending, flinching when the woman threw his saviour bodily across the room and embedded a knife into his shoulder, fear/rage churning deep in the pit of his gut when she bypassed the injured man and dragged him up by the throat.

Death by choking and suffocation: much like his voice, his vision failed, and everything blurred with the lack of oxygen and blood before it went dark. She was a demon, wasn’t she? Stealing away his chance to speak, intent on forever silencing his story.

_**Quiet.** _

But then his sight came rushing back as the pressure disappeared from his throat. The assassin was stumbling away from him, and in his weakened state, he was only able to follow the remaining scene in bursts: a bright glare of light, the smell of burning flowers and fabric and flesh, shattering glass - nothing, afterwards, except for floating white petals he couldn’t help but reach out for. The woman was gone, having pitched over the window to the ground below.

The man got to his feet and walked away from him, prompting him to cry out soundlessly, trembling. He reached out with his prosthetic almost immediately, forcing his body to its side, edging close as best he could. There was this... unexplainable urge within him, to be close to the stranger, lest he disappeared from sight. (Again?)

…Why?

The man returned, one hand over his wounded shoulder, and said, "Okay, **Ahab** , time to go."

 _Because he gave you a name. Remember?_ No. Yes.

The best Ahab could do was move his remaining hand up to touch the man's arm, fingertips scrabbling for purchase on the warm skin. Touch was the basest of human comforts and it grounded him in a way words couldn't. He glanced towards the broken window; the woman was irrelevant.

"Who are you?" he asked aloud, and the sound shocked him, causing him to inhale sharply; the unexpected relief almost making his eyes water. It sounded broken from years of disuse, but there it was: **_his voice_**. His grip tightened, looking at the other man with almost-fear on his face, wondering.

_Who are you?_

 

ISHMAEL

 

_Who was he?_

It was a question that managed to surprise him, although he had expected it. Pressing a hand against his injured shoulder still to staunch the bleeding and kneeling next to Ahab, he realized that this was in fact the first time he had spoken to him, and the way his voice sounded was so jarring that for a moment he thought that _he_ was the dreamer. It was also the first time Ahab looked at him, rather than through him; his single eye glazed over but focused, fixated on the man that had become his beacon and lifeline, his guide on this journey. He felt his fingers firm around his arm, stronger than the rest of him. It was the first time he touched him.

“Who am I…” He muttered, turning his bandaged face away, another blank for Ahab to fill in. He wasn’t allowed to know. Not right now, maybe never, unless -

_If you’re Ahab, then I will be…_

“You’re talking to yourself. I’ve been watching over you for nine years. Call me **Ishmael**.”

Until they were outside, Ishmael would be his guardian. He didn’t waste much time with explanations. _The world wants **you** dead._ He injected another drug into his arm to kickstart him, an entire shot of digoxin despite being well aware of the side-effects, then told him to get to his feet, _now, now, we’re getting out of here, move it!_ The whole place was coming down, threatening to bury them beneath fire and rubble and snuff them out of existence. The door was wide open, and he rushed towards it, past a pile of porcelain shards and trampled flowers.

It was quiet and empty in the hallway. But it wouldn’t stay that way the further they progressed, the closer they came to the exit, to the outside. They’d have to fight the whole way through; it was kill or be killed by the heartless world that had borne them. Ahab needed to be strong enough to survive it, and Ishmael would show him how, would teach him what he knew.

 _“Move it!”_ He shouted in Ahab’s direction, impatient, and almost tacked _This is an order!_ onto that demand, but then he closed his mouth again, checking instead for signs of hostiles.

 

AHAB

 

Movement was slow. Ahab’s muscles barely even listened to him as he flopped uselessly towards Ishmael’s position near the door.

...Wasn’t he? Because before he knew it, he was moving towards the dead doctor instead who was lying in a pool of his own blood. He crawled under the bed a little, fingers outstretched towards his real prize: the photos on the floor, carefully avoiding the glass shards on the floor from the mirror that the doctor had dropped earlier while being strangled.

Fingers dragged over something glossy. _Yes_ \- he managed to grip one of them tight and place it in his pockets, not even thinking about the energy that probably took out of him; energy he could’ve used for their escape instead. Just then, Ishmael’s voice startled him out his mental fever and Ahab let out a weak cry in response, heaving himself back towards the exit.

Try as he might, Ahab couldn't for the life of him summon enough muscle strength to stay upright, often falling back on his face. Humiliation was fast becoming a familiar feeling as he dazedly followed Ishmael's instructions. They headed for the elevator, but then there was a **monster** blocking their way, an explosion - it had to be - it had to be some sort of hallucination, right? It went away as fast as it came, and Ahab was staring up at the darkened ceiling, water splashing into his eyes. A shadow entered his vision.

It was Ishmael, but something seemed a little off. The man turned him over to his stomach and Ahab found that his movements were a little easier than before, as if the digoxin was finally kicking in.

Ishmael kept moving forward, and Ahab followed. (Something still seemed a little off.) It didn't take them long after to reach the end of the corridor, Ahab looking out of the window at the sound of muffled rotor blades cutting through the air, searchlights at the corner of his vision.

Ishmael yanked his shoulder backwards and down, keeping them both out of sight. _Oh_. Ahab opened his mouth to apologize, but then he let out a soft sound instead at the sight of Ishmael’s arm.

“Wait, your arm, it’s…”

 

ISHMAEL

 

_Dislocated._

Ishmael’s right arm had been hanging uselessly at his side since the first encounter with a vengeful ghost from their past. It was something that needed to be fixed, although not until they were out of the worst of it – until they had found some sort of cover, and that proved difficult with the chaos unfurling around them. **His top priority was to keep Ahab safe**. Ahab, who was finally able to walk upright, but still barely in control of his motor skills, stumbling behind him, dazed and confused and careless.

“Keep your head down!” Ishmael hissed, when Ahab popped out of cover to see what was happening outside, what the noise was all about, and he slammed him back against the wall below the window, pinning his shoulder there.

Voices and gunshots, down the other end of the corridor. Breathing heavily from the exertion, he pressed himself against the other body, until both of them hugged the wall, and said, “Quiet.”

Ishmael’s palm covered his mouth. Only his heart pounded loudly against his ribcage.

_Silence. We need to blend in with the dead if we want to survive._

There was no time to fix his arm. He dragged him along, towards the nearest door, told him to get down on his belly again and crawl, like the other helpless patients trying to escape this hell, writhing in puddles of their own blood and begging for mercy. He ignored them. He kept going, past the corpses, past the fire, past the whizzing bullets; Ahab always in tow, following close behind in the path he carved for him.

They were their shields and necessary sacrifices. They were their cover to hide behind, the dead, the voiceless.

“This way.”

They came to a hallway with a bloody trail on the ground. It was blocked by a soldier, and Ishmael took him out with the weapon he had found, one clean, left-handed shot to the head. His bandages and gown were covered in blood, the hem of the latter singed. There was a slight limp to his walk, though he couldn’t remember where he had injured his leg. It didn’t matter. They were almost there.

The dead soldier had dropped a pistol.

 

AHAB

 

Ahab wanted to tell them to stop, for the both of them to take a break, but not for his own sake, no - Ishmael was becoming more and more injured as they made their way through the hospital, visible from the way he walked and carried himself. First the arm, then the leg. More blood than before. ( _Something was str..._ ) His hand hovered over the gun that Ishmael handed over to him, and his fingers ghosted over his companion's skin before he gripped the weapon gingerly, shooting him a worried look.

He tried. “Ishmael, maybe we should do something about your injuries.”

He ignored him.

Maybe it wasn't his place to tell them to stop. Wasn't it more important to push for survival, right now? They dodged bullets and roaring, otherworldly fire, dead bodies, dead soldiers. The carnage was senseless, but Ishmael hardly paused as they advanced. It was for the best that Ahab followed in the same steadfast way.

_Right?_

He tried again. “Ishmael, maybe I should go first.”

He ignored him.

Ahab stifled the voice in him then and moved to shoot an encounter of soldiers intent on killing them, picking up on his own slack. Ishmael had impeccable aiming even one-handed, but Ahab couldn't just rely on him completely to get out of this alive.

More fire, more bodies, more soldiers.

And beyond the inferno, he could see the exit. They were so close. He turned to Ishmael; couldn’t help another final question even if the other man would probably ignore him again. “What should we do?”

 

ISHMAEL

 

They had reached the demolished foyer of the hospital, separated from the entrance exit only by a set of stairs and more enemy soldiers than he could count – some of them he couldn’t see (his vision swam), only hear; he saw the parking lot too, and the vehicles there, which would aid them in their escape. That was where they needed to go, leave this hell behind them and drive as far away as possible, until they reached a place where the enemy wouldn’t follow (did such a place exist? At the edge of the world?). Then they could catch a break, he was sure, before they parted ways, and by then Ahab would be strong enough to protect himself.

So close. They’d made it nine years ago, and they’d make it again.

(And again.)

“I’ll run interference,” he said, turning towards Ahab. He looked healthy, uninjured. Steady hands, wakeful gaze. That was good, wasn't it.

“Run, Ahab. I’ll meet you outside. We leave together.”

He unscrewed the suppressor from his pistol with some effort – it wasn’t easy with one hand, but he managed. Then he chucked it as far as he could, a diversionary tactic to draw the attention of the heavily armed soldiers, before he got back up to his feet and ran towards the stairs, firing a couple of unsilenced gunshots in their direction, and –

And his leg gave and he fell, and –

There was a volley of bullets ripping into flesh, and then he couldn’t feel his body anymore, couldn’t think.

A dead end.

_Dark._

 

AHAB

 

_**"Ishmael!"** _

Venom gasped as he sat up from the bed, hand outstretched uselessly - blindly scrabbling at the headphones tangled around his neck, almost accidentally shoving both the Walkman and DD off the bed in his panic before he realized that he was back in his bedroom in Mother Base. 1986, Seychelles, Command Platform. A quick glance to his right told him that it was 07 17 hours, though he could barely make it out the numbers, considering his vision was blurred with tears.

There was a high pitched whine coming from the dog but Venom stumbled away into the bathroom, needing air, _water, V, **wake up**._ His cheeks were wet; his fingers slippery as they yanked the switch for the overhead mirror light, his bionic hand turning on the tap.

The sound of running water filled the room quickly, and he let it calm him down as he took in shaky breaths. In. Out.

Dream.

_**Dark.** _

He flinched at the memory/dream, putting his flesh hand under the freezing water before spraying himself with it. By now DD had already made his way to his side, confused at his owner's distress, trying to comfort the man.

Venom patted his head absently, heaving in a breath.

 _We leave together._ They had, they had, they had left together - the evidence was plain in the Walkman that sat back on his bed, currently silent because the recording had kept on playing even when he'd slipped off into unconsciousness, up until it finished. He didn't even realize how easy the transition was from reality, recalling a distant mix of different voices and music filtering into his senses.

Another splash of cold water on his face. He rubbed himself down with a face towel in mechanical, harsh strokes, before making his way back to the bed. Venom made a face at the wires and untangled them rapidly, rewinding the tape back to where he'd drifted into dreams.

Or maybe...

Quietly, secretly, Venom rewinded the recording back to the beginning, taking comfort in the sound of Big Boss's voice, hearing his explanations again about doublethink and staying in touch. It was all too soon when he finally reached the last part.

“ …tell you about my own thoughts. That way you’ll know you’re not just talking to yourself, and we’ll remain in sync. Carry this tape on you, always, unless you want to pass it to me. Put it on the sink in your bathroom whenever that’s the case. You’ll find it again somewhere else.”  
  
(There’s a hiss, the sound of a cigar being ground out.)  
  
“That’s all. Thank you again for being so cooperative in this. But maybe I shouldn’t be surprised – you were always my best man, you know. Good night, V. I hope your dreams turn out pleasant.”  
  
(A couple of seconds of silence, then the tape clicks off.)

He stared blankly into the device in his hands, then inhaled deeply. Time to pull himself together. He resisted the urge to rewind a second time; Boss was counting on him, wasn't he? _Much like Ishmael was counting on Ahab/Ahab was counting on Ishmael, in the dream._

With the sun peeking over the horizon, Venom got up to search for a recorder for both song and message, thoughts mulling over what he should leave for Big Boss as he looked at his cassette collection. There was one song. It was a regular feature on his playlist, and something surprisingly fitting for the matter at hand: ‘ _Voices Carry_ ’ by ‘Til Tuesday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Obtained Cassette Tape (Voices Carry)](https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/kpc4bmdh8mwh42l/05%20-%20Voices%20Carry.mp3).


	9. 07 - ROAD TO NOWHERE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long, but it's a really long episode this time around... we had some trouble with it, but we hope it was worth the wait. Let us know what you think, aaaaaaand beware the sexual content. It's not much yet, but it's gonna be present from now on.

ISHMAEL

He felt the squish of mud under his boots as he left the unpaved road and walked through the cord grass, blades bent down to the ground by the steady rainfall. He gestured over his shoulder to the two soldiers behind, still busy loading whatever goods they had scavenged onto the truck. They continued what they were doing, shouting over the raging thunderstorm to get another comrade to help. The weather continued to be miserable and visibility low; unsurprising, then, that whoever had infiltrated this outpost first had made it a point to cut through it quick.

Hidden behind a boulder — as if he’d sensed it — Nathan found another mangled sentry, arm pinned at an unnatural angle beneath his body and his throat a tender shade of washed out crimson. Blood mixed with rainwater trickled into the soil. Nathan thought, nose scrunched up behind the wet fabric. Sloppy. Most weapons and men could be fixed up again with enough effort, exchanging one part for another, but not if their heart had already been silenced. It worried him a little just how much clean-up he had to do lately, trailing behind Big Boss like he was the shadow, steering his still growing reputation while picking the leftovers for himself.

One could almost start to believe that the leader of the pack was getting careless, lately, as if he was distracted. Nathan returned to the truck, signaled to his men that there was yet another corpse (the third one in this outpost alone). They’d have to be done here before the next convoy came through, leaving nothing behind — except for a conveniently placed ZRS cap rather than an overlooked witness who lived to tell about the one-eyed man, this time. Perhaps rearrange some other details and plant intel, here and and in the nearest ZRS base camp; the affected PF’s would come to their own conclusions and create more work opportunities, surely.

He sought shelter from the pouring rain under the tin roof of the nearest hut. Leaning against the brittle wall, he pulled a nondescript cassette tape from a pocket of his tactical vest. He flipped it to side B, the one he hadn’t been able to listen to yet, and exchanged it for the one sitting inside the walkman clipped to his belt. Pressing one earbud into his ear, he tried to tune the weather and other noise out, reaching into a different pocket to fish for a silver case.

(The ambient sounds of a quiet room fill the re-recording, at first. It’s a short while before words are actually spoken, all in a steady, almost monotone murmur.)  
  
“It is... Currently 0800 hours. I had a quick shower. I'll be having a quick breakfast. Then a briefing. Maybe a patrol around the base, if there's nothing too urgent. Maybe some target practice on the R&D Platform so I can beat my previous time. Maybe check on my men to see if they aren't too hungover from the party yesterday. **Merde**.”  
  
(Interference with the microphone then, and the voice comes back clearer, louder, getting more and more emotive the longer it goes on.)  
  
“I had a dream of a memory. It was about that goddamn mess back in Cyprus, you know the one? Yeah. Some things were different, here and there, and there were more voices than I remember. Way more Bowie than I remember, too. The music was the best part.”  
  
(Momentarily, a little farther: “It was always the best part.”)

After pulling the balaclava from his mouth and lighting himself a smoke (with some trouble, thanks to the occasional but heavy gust of wind), he slipped his cigar case back into his vest, together with the replacement zippo. He inhaled and exhaled, mulled over words that were spoken in his own voice and dovetailed with his present thoughts.

(The voice returns.)  
  
“The rest, not so much. Everything else was agony, so many people died… It didn’t really bother me back then, packing them all together like pigs for a slaughterhouse - probably because I couldn’t really remember it in bright clarity. But revisiting it again was a different story, I guess. There were so many bodies…”  
  
(Hesitation. Vagueness.)  
  
“Like I said, some things were different. I didn’t… I came out alright, I wasn’t injured. But someone else was. Almost made it to the exit, too, before I woke up.”  
  
(Hushed laughter.)  
  
“Maybe it was more dream than memory after all. The ending didn’t make much sense, and maybe just as well - I didn’t like it very much. I woke up crying… How silly. I’m sorry it’s so short. I don’t know what else to say.”

After that, there were one or two more minutes of silence, presumably to overwrite the old message. He didn’t stop the tape, rolling his cigar between index finger and thumb, watching how the wind and rain swatted at the trail of smoke. He could hear faint music coming from somewhere behind himself, and with a frown Nathan finally pressed ‘Stop’, rounding the hut to enter it properly through the door, where he spotted a man. He was sitting on a cot, wringing the water out of his drenched fatigues and humming to a tune that was coming from the radio on the table.

And if a double-decker bus  
Crashes into us  
To die by your side  
Is such a heavenly way to die  
And if a ten-ton truck  
Kills the both of us  
To die by your side  
Well, the pleasure - the privilege is mine  
  
Take me out tonight  
Take me anywhere, I don't care  
I don't care, I don't care…

“Estou pagando-lhe para não fazer nada?” His boss grunted at him, and he immediately stammered an apology, hastily slipping back into his BDUs and to head back outside.

He shook his head and sighed, taking off some of his own gear for the duration of his smoke break. After the song on the radio was done playing, it transitioned into a newscast, though he didn’t really listen to it. He was still considering V’s last — and first — message, which at least explained his most recent slip-ups, he supposed, if he was having nightmares related to his awakening. Learning about the circumstances behind it was bound to take its toll on Ahab’s already fragile mind, and he inadvertently thought back to what he could remember of their escape; driving the ambulance down a blockaded road, pursued by The Man On Fire and that creepy kid floating behind him… he knew he’d passed out at some point, crashed the vehicle, the world upside-down when he came to again. After that, they’d parted ways, not knowing for how long — leaving V in the hands of Ocelot and Kaz, while he —

“— incidente em Joanesburgo, esta manhã, lá são estimados em cerca de...”

 

***

 

“…Τουλάχιστον 120 θύματα. Ανάμεσά τους είναι βαριά οπλισμένοι στρατιώτες μιας άγνωστης οργάνωσης. Είναι δεδομένο ότι το νοσοκομείο ήταν ο στόχος της τρομοκρατικής επίθεσης…”

He shut his pocket radio off when he drove past what remained of the smoking Dhekelia Memorial Hospital, reduced to rubble and ash and an impressive body count, making it the worst tragedy in the island’s most recent history. It had begun to rain in the interim, to the advantage of the firefighters still dealing with some burning wreckage. Countless ambulances, SBA police and CJPU cars had also converged on the location, and from the looks of it international media outlets were racing to get exclusive footage, like bees to honey... It was only a matter of time until the UN would investigate the incident; same as with flight A207, so he had to get off the island before they could possibly close the borders. Ocelot had told him as much, too, only able to pass him his current set of clothes before escorting his double on horse to questionable safety in the southern port, using him as a decoy to attract attention of remaining pursuers at the same time.5

Well, he didn’t doubt that the most critical bits of information would be suppressed, anyway. If anyone could make this look like a tragic accident or the work of ordinary terrorists, it was Zero. Or whatever thing served as a surrogate enforcing his will from now on.

But even so he had to hurry up — through the buffer zone, heading for Kyrenia Harbour in the north, to catch the next ferry to Taşucu, the mainland of Turkey. Along with the passport that was now his ticket to the rest of the world, Ocelot had given him an address that served as his first point of contact. He flicked away his still smoldering cigar butt, and shifted to the highest gear, accelerating his once decommissioned Triumph bike that someone, apparently, had lovingly fixed up in the past nine years.

 

***

 

AHAB

 

His body was merciful and afforded him the dignity of at least walking upright as they made their way into the _Heiwa Maru_. Ocelot hovered close by as he maneuvered Ahab into a sequestered room under deck, skillfully dodging the ship's crew and sparing Ahab from having to explain his hospital attire to any curious onlookers. He was damp and irritable, covered in dirt and soot and blood that was both his and other people's.

"Snake." Ocelot's voice reverberated loudly within the metal room, made him raise his brows as he looked back. "I have to take care of some things above deck. There's a fresh change of clothes on the bed, so grab a shower if you can. Get some rest."

Ahab's lips twisted as he shrugged helplessly in acknowledgement. It wasn't as if he could stop Ocelot from leaving, even if it was the last thing he needed right then, exhausted and disoriented as he was. "I'll manage." That was all he meant to say, but then -

_Where's Ishmael?_

Ocelot nodded curtly. "That's good. We'll talk more once you’re back up." He turned around to leave. Ahab frowned - did Ocelot not hear him? - and tried again.

_There was a man with me..._

But then Ocelot disappeared, shutting the door behind him, and Ahab - no, Snake - made his way carefully towards the small private bathroom to wash himself off. He must have been more tired than he thought, if he couldn't even speak.

Snake only had the energy to give himself a quick rub down in the shower, unable and unwilling to take off his prosthetic, barely keeping his head bandages away from the water. He didn't bother putting on a shirt when he sank onto the bed, hair still damp and mind slowing down considerably now that he was, for the moment, out of immediate danger.

He wasn't... He was _so sure_ that Ishmael had been there. Hadn’t he? It made sense. It made more sense than - all the other things he’d seen today. Right?

_The whole world wants you dead._

He stared sleepily at his prosthetic arm as he laid on his side, with the steady hum of the ship lulling him into unconsciousness inbetween one troubled thought and the next.

 

***

 

_"John."_

Snake flinched away from the touch on his arm, shivering. The stranger gave him a moment to regain his bearings, lifting their arm away, and the faint background noise told him that he was on a ship, and _ah. Right_. He blinked at the dim ceiling, noticing that the only source of light was from the porthole on the other side of the room.

It wasn't a stranger at all - it was Ocelot, out of his long coat and already making himself comfortable on a chair near his bedside. Snake returned Ocelot's stare, relaxing when all he found was mild concern. It was a far cry from yesterday, before he’d fallen asleep, when he remembered that Ocelot's face had been open and friendly but his eyes had seemed hard and harsh. Probably due to the stress of their narrow escape back in -

_Where was it? The doctor spoke in Greek..._

"Can you sit up?"

Instead of answering, Snake pushed himself from his supine position. His hand came up to touch the bandages wrapped around his head when a sudden wave of dizziness attacked him, closing his eyes reflexively. **_Damn it._** He was still -

Weak. Atrophied. Ocelot was quick to steady him with an unfaltering hand, gesturing to a tray of food that sat on the side table nearby.

"Take it easy. You haven't had a proper meal in close to 24 hours."

Orientation. "What's the time?"

"15 32. We set sail from Dhekelia earlier this morning before sunrise."

Snake could barely begin to explain the feeling of relief that crashed into him then, that he hadn't lost that much time again ( _you've been in a coma for nine years_ ), so he simply sat back against the bedframe and flexed his good hand as he sorted through his thoughts. The fingertips of his left hand still hurt, but looking at the missing limb didn't bother him anymore.

It was only when Ocelot placed the tray on his lap that he realized how starved he felt and how silently _grateful_ he was that the man didn't offer to feed him. Embarrassment aside, he couldn’t afford to take too long to get used to his new body. The sooner he could do things himself the better.

Shoveling the food into his mouth took some effort. It was a while before he spoke again, but Ocelot was patient. (Gently so. It was a little strange.)

Questions, first. "Dhekelia."

"You were hospitalised in Dhekelia. A British sovereign base area on Cyprus - it's part of British overseas territory that falls outside of Cypriot jurisdiction."

The words fell out of Ocelot’s mouth a little too easily, too automatic, as if the mere mention of Dhekelia was a trigger. Snake looked closely at Ocelot’s eyes as he spoke, feeling uneasy at the peculiar openness, as if -

As if he had nothing to hide.

Snake couldn’t pinpoint what exactly bothered him though, so he left it alone for now. Then came a rundown of his movement from Camp Omega all the way to the other side of the world to avoid detection from Cipher; that the safest place from being found was inside the whale's own belly. Snake shrugged at Ocelot comparing him to Gepetto, thinking about Ahab and Ishmael instead.

"Well it wasn't Pinocchio who led me out to safety," Snake said gruffly, looking up from his food to fix Ocelot with a hard stare. "So who was that guy?"

"Cipher went so far as to attack British territory, burning their own ally," Ocelot continued, as if Snake hadn't spoken. His eyes were still soft. Guileless. "That's how badly they wanted you dead."

Twice, and no answer. Snake made a noncommittal sound at the back of his throat, moving on to catch up on world affairs instead, turning back to his food. "You said that I was in a British military hospital. But the doctor had a Greek accent."

"They hire locally..." And then came Ocelot's explanation on the situation in Cyprus, the cycle of revenge that had swept up the Greeks and the Turks in the country, the outside influences that had brought about the volatile situation in the first place - and Snake listened, and interjected, and listened.

Answers, and no answers.

He didn’t ask about Ishmael again.

 

 

***

 

ISHMAEL

 

He allowed himself a first, brief rest-stop just a few miles before Karaman on the D715 state road, after driving several more hours once he’d set foot on Turkish soil. Fortunately he hadn’t run into any major trouble so far, and even ferrying over had been smooth sailing in the most literal sense — with Kyrenia being a tourist resort these days, the staff on-site had been surprisingly understanding and lax when it came to identity checks, simply waving through everyone with a foreign passport. ‘Nathaniel’ had blended in effortlessly with the crowd of anxious travellers wanting to get off the island as quickly as possible once news of the incident in Dhekelia had begun to spread.

It didn’t take long at all until it reached the Turkish provinces, too. Once he was done refueling, he sat down in a small roadside restaurant, ordering himself a plate of köfte with some lira he had found in one of his saddlebags (at least a couple thousand, and there were also banknotes of multiple other European currencies, more than enough to last him at least a few months) and the basic Turkish he could speak. It wasn’t enough to understand the news broadcast running on the old b/w TV in the corner in its entirety, but he could filter out the most important pieces of information — they were covering what they speculated was an act of terrorists in the British sovereign base, trying to establish a connection with the airliner that had burst into flames a month earlier while pinning the blame on several different parties and foreign terrorist organizations, though the logical reasoning behind those accusations eluded him linguistically, which was just as well since he doubted they made any sense anyhow. The acronym XOF didn’t pop up anywhere, but a familiar face and name did: the doctor that had overseen his recovery and spearheaded his double’s transformation, Athens-born surgeon and scientist Michail Vlahakis. According to the news, he’d combined a vacation on Cyprus with a sick bed visit which led to his untimely demise, and of course the collective mourning of his peers in the Western scientific communities he had been very active in during the last two decades, contributing to major breakthroughs in the morphological sciences and reconstructive surgery.

He frowned quietly to himself as he listened, making an effort to understand as much as possible and shoving another ball of minced meat into his mouth. The developments in Afghanistan that were addressed soon after were slightly more interesting, knowing that Ahab was currently headed there to rescue Kazuhira from Soviet captivity -- his very own ‘Virtuous Mission’ during which he had to prove himself and his loyalty, in a way. Now that he thought about it, Afghanistan wasn’t even that far from his current location, and if he purposely changed travel directions he could be there sooner than his double, he was certain. It was the kind of crackpot idea that was terribly alluring in its spontaneous idiocy.

Rationally, though, he knew that was about the worst thing he could possibly do now — interfering with Ocelot’s work at such an early stage, especially when he was on his own with no army at his back or legendary façade in front. He had become a nobody, just as planned, and his death would not cause a great stir. So he would do the only sensible thing: continue north, past Konya and Ankara, then westwards along the coast of the Black Sea, until he reached the Bulgarian border. He stifled a yawn. He’d slept more than enough in recent years, which also meant he had no more time to waste.

“Teşekkür ederim. Çok güzeldi,” Nathan said when he pushed his chair back, leaving a 1000 lira note on the table.

 

***

 

AHAB

 

"It's probably time for a shave," Snake said aloud as soon as Ocelot entered the room, pushing himself up into a sitting position on the floor from where he was doing sit-ups. Right now he was _supposed_ to be on a break from lifting weights, but it only took him half a minute of idleness to spur him into action. At Ocelot's odd look, Snake gestured to his jaw. "It's a little unkempt."

Two weeks to get back into shape. Any wasted time was a luxury, so Snake found himself constantly on the move, trying to squeeze in as much physical rehab as he could into every waking minute. Building up bulk, testing his reflexes, regaining his balance, just - _functioning_.

The drugs helped a whole lot. Ocelot pumped them into his system to drive his physiotherapy, administering injections at least two to three times a day. He suspected they affected his appetite as well, because he was consuming so much food in between his exercises when he wasn't resting.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

"...I'll help you trim it," Ocelot answered eventually, then laughed a little as he thought about a clean-shaven Boss, voice muted as he dug through the bathroom cabinets. "Can't do away with all of it, Snake. In fact I don't think I've ever seen you without facial hair."

"Isn't that a good thing?" He tried to reign in his reproachful tone, but Ocelot had confined him to the room for the last 48 hours in fear of being recognized, just in case Cipher was still on their tracks. Being cooped up in the room was making him irritable and the feeling left him a little lost. It might be his body protesting after years of inactivity, but the resentment was just... It was as if it wasn't coming from himself.

_(Then there is silence, and it stays.)_

Ocelot returned with a pair of scissors in one hand, holding out the other to help pull Snake up.

"Just a few more hours, John, I promise," he murmured soothingly once they were at eye level, and Snake’s hand twitched away from the grip, reeling in a flinch and a sigh. Ocelot gestured at the two chairs nearby and Snake made himself comfortable on one of them, looking up curiously when the other man went behind him.

Fingers threaded through his hair and Snake jumped, shying away. "Ocelot?"

"Your hair," was the explanation, and Ocelot looked apologetic and somewhat surprised as he raised his hands up. "It'll be easier once it's out of the way, so let me tie it up."

"... Right." Snake ducked his head away, pursing his lips. The lingering, familiar touches were another thing that he wasn't sure how to deal with. Still, he kept his peace throughout the ordeal, especially once Ocelot began to trim his overgrown beard.

 _Aren't we friends?_ The thought was difficult to swallow, but there wasn't any evidence to suggest otherwise. Whenever they interacted, Ocelot was perfectly friendly: he went out of his way to help Snake recover and catch up with the last nine years, and save for the confinement, he was always attentive to Snake's needs.

But all Snake had to do was look into Ocelot's face and be reminded that in return, despite what he _knew_ , he _felt_ nothing.

 

***

 

ISHMAEL

 

The sun was already setting when he turned the engine off, again checking the address on the slip of paper he’d found between the pages of his passport. After not even a week on the road he had finally reached his destination, crossing Bulgaria in a single day, and Nathan dismounted his two-wheeled drive to stand in a damp back alley of Bucharest’s 5th sector. The streets were lined by gray and unfinished multi-story buildings made of concrete slabs that tended to shape the cityscape of socialist bloc countries, imposing a bleak uniformity. Looking for the right place, he walked past a flea-bitten dog and an aged Roma couple huddling together between rows of black trash bags; not the town’s most attractive neighborhood, he could already tell, but perhaps that was the point.

It took him a minute or two and comparing street names until he came to a detached house that seemed vacant at first glance, but the fresh cigarette stubs he spotted on the sidewalk and by the set of stairs leading up to the front door told him otherwise. He ascended them and tried the doorbell — dead, it looked like, so he knocked. Gently at first, then louder, but there was still no reaction.

Nathan knitted his brow, shifting his weight from one foot to another. He was pretty sure he hadn’t gotten the address wrong. Was he supposed to wait, or...?

He perked up when he heard the soft but distinct clink of metal against metal, and someone quietly cursing in what sounded like English, coming from somewhere to his left. A steel fence made of aluminium panels blocked his view, but there was another heavy door, left ajar and and leading onto a concrete platform that was fully enclosed by the fence. It was a roofless garage that was mostly empty except for two or three small containers, and —

“Pleacă, dacă știi ce e bine pentru tine,” a female and decidedly unfriendly voice said. It was coming from the woman kneeling in front of a motorcycle, wearing a drab overall with the sleeves tied around her waist, blond hair kept together in a ponytail at her neck. She reached for the torque wrench resting between numerous other mechanic tools on the ground next to her without looking at him.

“So soon? I only just got here,” he replied, unable to hide his smile, recognizing her immediately. It took her a bit longer, but not much — the moment he opened his mouth she froze, dropping her tool and whipping her head around, staring at him with wide eyes and a shell-shocked expression.

It lasted only for a few seconds, and then she started to laugh.

“Oh my god, did you _shave?_ ”

“It doesn’t look that bad, does it?”

She shook her head, still laughing, and before he could say anything else she launched herself at him, arms around his midsection and face buried in his shoulder, holding onto him so tightly it almost hurt, as if she had to make sure he was really there and couldn’t possibly leave again. He placed one hand at the small of her back in a loose embrace, letting her rest her weight against him.

“EVA,” he said, mildly tired from the trek.

“My god,” she repeated, over and over again, with tears in her voice.

 

***

 

AHAB

 

Three days later, and they were on another ship after having transferred seamlessly from the _Heiwa Maru_ whilst in the Suez Canal, well into the Gulf of Aden by now and probably only a dozen nautical miles away from being in the proper Arabian Sea. The switch afforded Snake more freedom, so in a rare break from his exercises he found himself staring out onto the sea from the port side of the deck, trying to clear his mind.

Over the past few days he had gained two things of note: his upper arm had gained enough muscle for Ocelot to strap on a new state of the art prosthesis with little difficulty, and Snake had marvelled at the responsive technology, silently grateful that they had sunk in enough time and resources to engineer one specifically for him. Apparently the bulk of his physiotherapy had been mainly for the installation of the arm, because most of his other useful skills depended on having two functional hands. They'd now moved on to more general body exercises instead of just focusing on his upper body.

"Venom."

Right. Snake - no, _Venom_ , this time - turned to look at the approaching man, lifting his bionic hand in acknowledgement.

The second was the new codename Ocelot had given him. ‘Venom’ was hardly the first choice he would've picked for himself, but he accepted it well enough, understanding  the need to distinguish himself from his previous identity and mark a new chapter in his life. He wasn't too bothered by the imposition - names weren't something that defined who he was. He knew that he was John. He also knew that he was Snake, and Venom, and Ahab.

What was important was that he was Big Boss.

So here he was, in a new ship with a new limb and a new name. This time Ocelot's presence was companionable instead of awkward, partly because he had gotten used to Ocelot's friendliness, and partly because Venom himself ruthlessly tamped down on any reservations he had about their relationship. He was tired of constantly looking over his shoulder and feeling like something was missing. Even a solitary creature would bend under a relentless, starving need for companionship, and Ocelot offered affection freely enough seemingly without asking for anything in return.

Venom gave in, a little bit. "What is it, Ocelot?"

Ocelot looked pleased. "I have something for you. Remember when I told you to put your old hospital clothes aside to get rid of the evidence?"

That had been days ago back in the whaling ship. Venom's smile dropped, unsure why dread was growing in the pit of his stomach. "Yeah."

"I meant to give this to you earlier, but I had to wait until I briefed you about what happened nine years ago... Found it in your pockets."

A piece of paper? Venom snatched the item from Ocelot's fingers, startling at the glossy surface. _No._

It was a photograph. Specifically, it was a photograph of four men lined up in front of a helicopter, wearing painfully familiar uniforms he hadn't seen in person in almost a decade. The colours looked faded, and Venom wasn’t sure if it was because of age or because of his vision problems where he sometimes had trouble processing colour. Venom's throat tightened as he scanned the four faces, fingers ghosting over his own visage staring back at the camera. Morpho, Kaz, himself, and...

Surprisingly, he didn't feel the bone-deep anger and desire for revenge that he’d expected from looking at a memory of a whole and unbroken MSF.

He only felt loss.

Ocelot watched him carefully and hesitated.

"John?" A hand came up to grasp his metallic forearm, and Venom inhaled sharply, pulling himself together from that moment of weakness. Still, he hardly moved away from the touch, leaning into it instead despite himself, desperate for some sort of contact.

Wash, rinse, repeat. Days and days of just trying to function physically that he’d almost forgotten about his own mental state. _Weak_.

Venom turned to look at the sea again, the photo held in a careful grip as he thought about what to do. The photo hurt, which was useless because he didn't have room for sentimentality - right? A release of his fingers and he could get rid of it forever. But the thought seemed monstrously cruel for a reason he couldn't immediately pinpoint.

Ahab seemed to think it was worth saving. So why shouldn't Venom?

He flipped the photo over, before flipping it back and carefully creasing it, folding over the face of the fourth person. It was the only way he could fit the photo into the small pocket near his heart, and he immediately felt better for it, turning to Ocelot after rearranging his expression.

"Thanks for this." He meant it. The man's hand was still holding his arm, and Venom raised his eyebrows, feeling mildly amused. Ocelot dropped it and shrugged, relaxing.

"I wasn't sure how you were going to take it, but I figured that I shouldn't be hiding anything from you. Least of all about MSF." Ocelot leaned against the railing using both forearms, curiosity colouring his next words. "I have to say though, Boss, I didn't know you were the type to keep photos."

Venom didn't move away from the warmth radiating near his right thigh. "It's good, isn't it? Memory's fallible. Photos aren't." As long as they weren't manipulated, but that wasn't the issue here. "What do you think?" he asked anyway, and Ocelot blinked.

"Well... I can see the appeal in photos, sure. But carrying them around on your person... It's not something I'd personally do."

Venom heard the unvoiced part of Ocelot's sentence, nevertheless: photos were evidence and evidence was dangerous.

But he couldn't help liking the thought of keeping mementos like that - he wondered if he could make that happen, in the future. A nice spread of his favorite photos lined up for him to look at documenting his time as Venom Snake. There was an infinite appeal to the idea, especially for someone like him who had lost too much time, because the photos could act as timestamps and _evidence_ that at least, he’d been there.

Or it could just be an exercise in futility. Judging from Ocelot's explanation of private forces cropping up worldwide after the fall of MSF, didn't he already have a legacy that transcended beyond himself? History already knew he existed. What need did he have for photographs? _Sentimentality doesn't keep you alive in the field. A faster hand, maybe. Better skills._

_But doesn't it help to remember what you're fighting for?_

Big Boss fought for himself. A clear, sure echo in his mind, and Venom knew that to be the truth. The truth hardly moved his heart, however, and he kept a steady hand over where the MSF photo was, having made his decision.

 

***

 

ISHMAEL

 

Almost exactly two decades ago, winding down in that safehouse in Galena, he’d told her that he still owed her a dinner. For some reason he could never make good on his promise, due to a lack of time or opportunity or simply because he was on this side of the world and she on the other. EVA never reminded him, not in Hanoi and not in Virginia and not in New Mexico, and he was secretly grateful for that.

But she reminded him in Bucharest, as if she already knew that this would be her last chance to ever ask him about it. She granted him the much-needed rest he had denied himself for the past week, not yet speaking a single word about where they would go from here. When he woke up in the late afternoon, pleasantly surprised by the lack of nightmares, he spotted a pile of clothes at the foot of the bed, and less than two hours later he found himself sitting at a table of a fancy, international, well-frequented restaurant. EVA had situated herself opposite of him, wearing a black, low-cut dress, with her dyed hair falling over her bony shoulders. She didn’t look like she was almost fifty, hiding the wrinkles around her eyes and any worry lines under a thick layer of make-up.

People in their line of work have always been good at playing pretend and running away. He still (and always had) felt awfully misplaced in a crowd of people coming together for the sole purpose of pretentious socializing, picking listlessly at his plate of mixed salad while waiting for the main dish to be served. All he could think about was in how many different ways he could kill a man with the fork in his hand, mind automatically backtracking all the way to the first time he’d had something close to resembling a dinner date with her: in a dark, damp cave in the middle of the Russian jungle, in front of a makeshift campfire; roasting snakes and other skewered critters he’d clubbed to death ‘like a caveman’, according to her.

The juxtaposition of these two images — natural habitat versus gilded cage — was amusing in its own right, prompting an absent-minded chuckle which EVA was quick to comment on.

“What’s so funny?” She asked, looking at him quizzically, a piece of tomato caught in the prongs of her fork. Some of the dressing (Italian, she’d pointed out to him) was languidly trickling down the expensive silverware.

“Sometimes I really wonder what’s going on in that head of yours,” she sighed resignedly, as if she’d given up on trying to figure him out a long time ago. He considered her for a moment, comparing the woman sitting in front of him with the one he’d briefly fallen in love with in 1964 — out of necessity, he’d come to realize, because he’d never had much of a choice. When people were forced to rely on one another during trying times, trusting each other with their lives, they often tended to bond and mistake that bond for love, but he knew it wasn’t that. It was not like he hated her, either; part of her was just attached to him now like he’d been attached to his mentor, once, and that never went away, even if he did. He remembered the wistful adoration in her voice when she’d relayed The Boss’s message to him, the way she spoke about their relationship like she had just discovered something sacred, almost transcendental, and difficult to describe or classify.

_(Something that went beyond man and woman, beyond the borders of countries or pages in a book.)_

Something that would make her feel more human, perhaps, if she could emulate it. She’d undoubtedly studied interpersonal relationships and how to build and manipulate them from a very young age at The Philosopher’s charm school, but her encounter with Snake in Tselinoyarsk seemed to have opened her eyes to another world; an entire cosmos of stories so much greater than herself, alone.

_You couldn’t possibly understand._

He still didn’t think she did, but that was irrelevant. “Well,” Jack said, nonchalantly gesturing at her wine glass with his fork. “Right now, I’m thinking… would Cécile approve of what you’re having there?”

She looked at the bottle. A 1970 French Bordeaux, and the waiter had specifically recommended a California Cabernet Sauvignon.

EVA smirked at him. “Whatever makes you think I know a Cécile?”

“Something about ‘little birds’,” he answered, with a shrug. You weren’t exactly subtle. “I always figured she had another reason to be there. She made for a more convincing ornithologist than I did, probably because she actually knew her stuff.”

“She _does_. She’s very involved with _la ligue pour la protection des oiseaux_ these days, you know… Ah.” She paused, thoughtfully, considering her next words — they were in public, after all, so they could hardly talk in detail about anything relating to MSF, or what followed after that. “I should thank you for sending her back to Paris when you did. I know she was starting to like it there.”

“Hrm,” he grunted, noncommittal.

“Which reminds me,” EVA said, after a sip from her glass. She hesitated, lowering her voice. “Do you still have the photo I sent you with that package?”

He frowned. Package… the tape. Photo. Right — the Mercury Seven that had actually been Eight, before they’d erased The Boss and passed that off as the truth. That photo had been the only proof of her involvement, and the only picture he’d ever had of her. After looking at it, he’d stashed it away with the box it had reached him in, trying to forget about it.

“No,” he said. “I didn’t carry it on me. I had more important things to worry about at the time. It’s probably burnt, at the bottom of the ocean, or both.”

There was a heavy pause.

“You don’t keep photos on you?”

“No,” he said reflexively, with an edge of irritation, then added, “I never thought about it. Do you?”

He wasn’t so sentimental. There were a dozen other reasons why he considered it a bad idea to carry photographs around with him, in the field — who knew who might get their hands on them? EVA looked at him with patient eyes, brushing a long strand of hair back behind her ear, before she reached between her breasts, pulling something from her push-up bra. She handed it over to him wordlessly, and he felt the subdued heat of a flickering dinner candle brush the back of his hand when he took what appeared to be a slip of paper from her.

It was folded in the middle. It wasn’t paper, either. He unfolded it, and stared at himself with a bandanna tied around his head, wearing BDU’s with a woodlands camo pattern. It was…

“I’ve kept a single copy of that ever since I left you the first time,” she said. “Close to my heart.”

 _For insurance._ He’d set alight the one he’d found next to the recording containing her confession, back then, to erase all evidence. This one sure looked like it was twenty years old though, colors faded, with some small tears and stains, but intact nevertheless. It was him alright — at age 29, right before he’d gone to plant the C3 only to get caught by Volgin. Right before he’d gone to kill The Boss.

Right after he’d spent that night together with EVA in that cave, and right after losing an eye for her.

“Though I guess strictly speaking, it’s not the only one I saved,” she went on to explain, with a mellow chuckle. “When we moved you and… your friend, someplace more comfortable… I checked your gear and his, before we got rid of everything. I found some photos in one of his pockets — they had you in them, so I figured they must have been important. I left them in the hospital, thinking they might help with the therapy if nothing else. I don’t know if Adam gave them back to him when he woke up, but — well.”

He looked up.

_Look familiar, John?_

“Doubt it,” said Jack, folding the picture between his fingers to return it to its owner. “There was no time. Nothing remains of the place, and the same is probably true for any photos.”

(He wasn’t so sentimental.)

“Yeah, I guess…” Said EVA with an outstretched hand, taking it back and glancing at the waiter heading in the direction of their table, balancing two plates — finally. “I wonder if he’ll miss them? I mean _you_ certainly wouldn’t,” she sounded a bit cross, even as their plates were set down, “but that doesn’t have to mean _he_ won’t.”

“He’ll get over it,” he gruffed, stabbing his fork into the bloody rump steak he’d ordered.

 

***

 

AHAB

 

_" Je sais quel genre d'homme que tu êtes vraiment."_

Venom woke up, desperately clinging onto the remnants of his recent dream quickly eluding his memory. But it was a futile endeavor, with Venom resigning himself to yet another forgetful night he couldn't remember a thing from other than his dangerous voice cutting through the darkness, as if speaking from another time.

The dream had felt different from the others, though. Venom groaned as he unzipped his trousers, having fallen asleep in his day clothes, generously palming his hot and heavy cock trapped behind his briefs. He could hear his own laboured breathing over the hum of the ship as he sweated gently through the sheets, inexplicably aroused.

That was new. At least his body remembered, Venom thought with an undercurrent of dark humour, tugging down his briefs to expose himself to the stale air before pulling his legs up and spreading them for an unseen audience. He flinched at the dryness of his hand when it met his cock, quickly licking his palm before continuing.

Better. But his mind was without stimulation, so he was still stuck.

Venom let his thoughts drift. First he thought about Ocelot, suspecting their recent close interactions to be the cause of this, figuring that made the most sense. The softness in his eyes every time he looked at Venom; the warmth of Ocelot's thigh pressed up against his own, close to his dick.

Nothing.

He growled in mild frustration as he dug through more of his memories, finding it difficult to latch onto a subject. Cécile. Kaz. Amanda. All whole and young and beautiful in his mind's eye, but still nothing.

Momentarily he thought about Paz, making him curl his mouth in distaste as soon as he did. He could feel his erection flagging at the very thought.

Venom threw his bionic arm over his eyes in exasperation, mind conjuring up strangers to fill in the void. He felt his eye go half-lidded as he remembered the nurse bent over his bed as he’d woken up from his coma, thinking about the low cut of her outfit and the swell of her breasts, and how he could've sworn that she wasn't wearing anything underneath. But it wasn't long in between one breath and the next when he suddenly thought about -

Rough hands, pushing him away from the window and against the nearby wall, causing him to arch his back while he let out a soft noise of distress. His recently restored elbow protested at the harsh movement. There was a familiar, husky laugh coming from behind him, so Ahab turned his head and saw Ishmael pressing down on him, eyes dark.

"La prochaine fois, fais-le toi-même," Ishmael said perfunctorily, hooking two fingers under the waistband of his pants and pulling them down to expose his ass. Ahab moved his own clumsy hand over his fattening cock, surprised and embarrassed to find it already slick from his saliva and precome. That fact didn't go unnoticed by Ishmael, who squeezed his sac without care and caressed two fingers down his asshole teasingly.

The moans built up louder in his throat as he wondered _wait, weren't they_ \- and a hard, thick cock slipped into his cleft, causing him to jerk backwards -

\- and forwards into his tightening fist, semen spilling all over his hand. Venom snapped back into reality to the sound of his loud breathing echoing off the walls and his heartbeat pounding rapidly against his ribcage, face pressed against his pillow after having unconsciously rolled over with his ass hovering in midair. He could still feel the pressure on his sac and fingers ghosting over his twitching hole - he must have done it himself, then.

_Next time, do it yourself._

Venom turned over to his back, avoiding the stains on the sheets, and stared blindly at the metal ceiling of the ship, afterglow sorely interrupted by the confusion fast plaguing his mind.

_Did I just...?_

Venom sat up abruptly, trying to calm himself down as he wiped his stained hand absently on the corner of his already soiled sheets. He swallowed and tried to grab the flask of water on his bedside, accidentally overreaching with his metal arm and knocking it over instead. He swore shakily, burying his face into his hands. It stank of his release, hammering home the incredulity of what just happened, of what he just -

Why _him_ , of all people? Venom breathed in as deeply as he could, thinking about what had happened in Dhekelia with a sick feeling building in his gut. To find some sort of release there, with all of the corpses and fire and blood was just -

But it hadn’t really been the hospital, had it? It had been Ishmael, with his rough hands and his sure strength he’d depended on in order to escape from the XOF forces alive. Ishmael, who Ocelot wouldn't acknowledge even existed, though Venom knew that hardly made sense from what he remembered. As fallible as his memory was, he couldn't have hallucinated every single moment he shadowed Ishmael's steps throughout their time together, however brief.

 _But why **him**?_ Ishmael was a skilled ally - or at least someone who wanted him alive, that much was true. But he was also a stranger without a face, with a voice much like his own, and the thought of being unable to identify the man bothered him immensely, the same way he felt whenever his dreams slipped through his fingers as he joined the waking world.

_**Who are you?** _

Venom suddenly wanted a smoke, very badly. There weren't any cigars nearby though, for whatever reason, so he closed his eyes and fell back into his pillow, curling up to avoid the mess on his bed. All traces of his journey here would be eliminated once they disembarked, which should be in a couple hours anyway, so there wasn't any need for him to take care of it now.

 

***

 

ISHMAEL

 

Jack watched the smoke as it curled towards the rotating ceiling fan, where his gaze remained for a while, chest heaving and body gradually cooling down. Someone next to him heaved a content sigh. He felt EVA’s sweat-slick breasts press up against his biceps, head resting on his shoulder while two of her long, sharp nails curiously traced along the ridge of his fake-scar, without actually touching it. He tolerated it because his thoughts weren’t really with her. They already hadn’t been when they’d banged the door shut, or when he’d picked her up and tossed her onto the mattress, pinning her there with his eye and then his hands.

She’d readily welcomed him into her arms and between her legs, and he’d registered only obscene whispers and incomplete sentences next to his ear, interspersing the rough, erratic, needy rhythm of flesh smacking against flesh. There’d probably been a dozen love confessions, too, but he hadn’t really paid that much attention to what had come out of her mouth. She hadn’t said anything after that, not until now, dragging herself out of her post-sex stupor to finally face reality.

“…So what’s the plan,” she murmured, a severity to her voice that gave away how much she’d dreaded asking that question, because she knew that there was no point in asking him to come back to Prague with her and play pretend at this life for a while longer.

His answer was delayed, knuckles stroking over his chin and the bristles that had begun to sprout again. The smell of his Cohiba soon overshadowed that of sex, and he took a long, deep drag, exhaling the smoke with his next words.

“We find Zero,” he said curtly, as if it was that simple — as if that mission alone wasn’t already a monumental task in itself, like getting the first man onto the moon had been.

“There’s no way we can just peacefully co-exist with one another, especially not with his AIs running the show now. Ocelot left a couple of back doors open at Diamond Dogs, both for myself and Cipher. I’m gonna keep a close eye on them, see if they dig up any useful information. I’ll need some reliable men to start out with.”

“You want me to tap into my network, in other words.”

“Yeah. Rebuilding will be their top priority, and their numbers will grow quickly — Miller will make sure of that. Ocelot’s gonna be a little more… negligent, when it comes to weeding out spies, so I don’t foresee much trouble.”

_Even if Kaz will kick up a fuss, I’m sure. Not like he minded any spies before, as long as they’re good for business…_

“Not for you,” EVA said, sounding skeptical. She hoisted herself up on her elbows to look at his rutted face. “What about him... what’s his code again, V? What does that even stand for?”

“Five, if I had to guess,” Jack replied, disgruntled. The fifth snake, yet another and hopefully the last of Zero’s pet projects. “Ocelot calls him Venom. Says it has a nicer ring to it, like he’s some kind of viper.”

“Mmmm,” she thought. “Somehow he didn’t strike me as a venomous snake, back when I saw him.”

“That man is dead,” he said, sharply, meeting her gaze for the first time since this conversation had started. “And he will be too, one day. But ideally some years will pass until then if he and Ocelot are any good at their jobs. Cipher needs to be taken apart from the inside, and I need more time and resources — for that, and getting my own system running. Zero’s proxies can play with my double, and by the time he figures he’s shot himself in the foot, it’ll already be too late.”

EVA said nothing in response to that, at first. Eventually she shifted into more of a sitting position, brows drawn together in a frown as she plucked the cigar from his fingers to have a taste herself.

“You still think he did it to mock you,” she eventually mused aloud.

“It’s because he’s scared shitless. He thinks he can strip the title away from me and dismantle me like a nuclear warhead, and I’m supposed to be grateful that I get a second chance at life in his _brave new world_ … I’m not gonna play that game. I make my own rules.”

“Look, Jack,” EVA said with slight hesitation, raising her hand in a stop gesture, earning herself a scowl when he sat up, too. “You know I’m with you, and I don’t like what Zero and the others have planned, so I’ll play my part in order to prevent that. I helped bring this mess about, after all…” He opened his mouth to say something, but she interrupted him. “Wait. I’m also well aware that you’ve known him longer than I do, but… somehow I really don’t think he did _any_ of this to slight you. I mean, did you ever _try_ talking to him?”

“Oh,” he said with an arched brow, sounding deadpan. His voice rose in volume the longer he went on. “I get it — just like you tried talking to me when you agreed to carrying those bastard clones of mine? _‘He’ll warm up to them once he sees them!’_ ”

EVA froze, color draining from her face. Only her eyes widened, but Jack went right on before she could say anything in response, his next words, level again, cutting right through her.

“But it’s alright. Really — I know you didn’t do it to deliberately upset me. You just wanted to know what it was like to be a mother, and there was your first and maybe only chance… I understand completely. I forgive you. That’s what you want to hear, isn’t it? I don’t mind at all that you went behind my back and practically used me so that you could get something you wanted. _I forgive you._ ”

He spat the last three words like venom, coating them in honey. Incensed silence lingered after that, some ash dropping from the tip of the cigar onto the pristine white sheets. He heard her swallow, saw her backing away from him, if only an inch, becoming smaller in his presence. She looked like he’d just beaten her, and now she didn’t know what to say.

She didn’t try to deny any of the accusations he’d just flung at her. Eventually, she just murmured, “You’ve changed.”

His eye narrowed, and he inwardly counted to ten. The thing was --

The thing was, she didn’t have anyone or anything left.

She’d never had anyone for herself, some kind of meaningful connection with someone, and even when she’d tried to artificially forge one by producing offspring — the most natural thing in the world — it had been taken away from her. She loved him because her country had stopped loving her a long time ago; she loved him because he had shown her kindness when she had been at her weakest, most vulnerable, most _useless_ , assuring her that she was still needed. That someone needed her. That there was some reason to go on living.

That was all they ever wanted. He exhaled his anger, replaced it with pity. He understood. Of course he understood, but that did not mean he had to accept —

“No, I haven’t,” he said, softly, reaching out and cupping her cheek, and she placed her own hand on top of his. She looked into his eye and searched for the man she had, out of necessity, fallen in love with in 1964, despite knowing better. Despite knowing that love was merely an affliction, a condition that could be exploited, a tool at her disposal; a weapon that could be taken from and used against her.

_I can fall in love, if it’s part of the mission…_

For him, it was the same.

_I’ve never been interested in anyone else’s life._

“I still need you.” His thumb brushed over the corner of her mouth, smearing some leftover traces of lipstick, and he leaned forward to kiss her, taking back the cigar to blindly place it in the ashtray on the bedside table. She reciprocated promptly, passionately, leaning into him and scything her fingers through his unkempt hair.

She was selfish like that.

He eased her back down to fuck her slow and gentle, like people tended to do, playing pretend at something that had never, and would never, amount to anything but carefully exercised control.

 

***

 

AHAB

 

"This song is American," Venom commented, finger lifting from the radio dial. "I didn't know that they had English-language stations here."

"Only half of the Cold War's fought through armed conflict in proxy wars, Boss," Ocelot drawled, accelerating the jeep through the paved road. They were already past the rough, off road part of the route towards Khyber Pass as they avoided the main NATO route, so it was an easy cruise from here on out until they had to switch to horseback. "The other half is through culture, haven't you heard?"

"I've heard." It was part of the reason why America pushed so hard for its movies and music to make its way across both the Atlantic and the Pacific, especially in the Second and Third Worlds where conventional unilateralism wouldn't work, being out of their sphere of influence. "How much longer before we get there?"

"An hour."

Venom raised his eyebrow in disbelief as he left the radio playing in the background. "An hour."

"Maybe a little more, depending on how the situation is at the border. But according to intel we should be through pretty quick, and we're making good time too. The horseback trip is the one you need to watch out for."

"Huh." That was a relief. They were still on a deadline, of course, and it was no time for Venom to relax, knowing that Kaz was suffering out there - but at least they were on schedule in the best possible way under the circumstances. Venom tapped his left fingers against his makeshift armrest, clinking against the jeep door. It followed the rhythm of the song as he thought about his former subcommander, the undercurrent of worry he carried around with him constantly growing bigger and bigger the closer they came to their destination.

There were more than a dozen things that he worried about that had to do with Kaz, the most obvious being whether or not Kaz was still alive. Of course Ocelot was confident that he was still useful to the Soviets so they wouldn't kill him off immediately, and Venom privately agreed with that assessment, but what they wouldn't kill, they would break.

Kaz was strong, but...

"He'll be fine, Boss."

Venom sighed, coming back to the present. "That obvious?"

"For what it's worth, I think it's good that you worry. It means you remember him and how important he was to you."

"Of course I wouldn't forget Kaz," he rumbled over the sound of the engine, almost offended at the thought. Kaz had bled for and given _everything_ to MSF - the man might as well be the PF itself, even with Big Boss as its commander. Being unable to remember Kaz while knowing MSF existed was anomalous. "I just... All of this would mean nothing if he's dead."

"He'll be fine," Ocelot repeated firmly. "You'll make it there, and you'll get him out. Then you'll finally get your chance at revenge against Cipher. You won’t fail us, Boss, it's as simple as that."

Venom snorted, but resisted the urge to comment. Ocelot had a habit of bringing up vengeance as the main drive of his mission in Afghanistan, which unnerved him more than he cared to admit. Revenge against Cipher was one thing, but building up a stronghold again was more important in order to secure their _future_ , especially considering how weak they were at the moment.

He wondered if he had to impress that upon Kaz, if they would ever argue over that. He doubted it - the least he could do for Kaz right now was to promise him the kind of vengeance he needed, so Venom would do all he could to help Kaz with that. And Kaz would recognize the best way to strike against Cipher was to build up their own forces, too, so at least their objectives would be combined into one for the moment.

"I have something else for you," Ocelot said suddenly, fishing for something in the confines of his jacket and pulling out a dark-coloured cigar.

Venom's lips pulled into a smile despite himself, plucking it from Ocelot's fingers with more care than he’d done with Ocelot's previous 'gift'. The cigar was odd, though, with a smooth surface as if it was wrapped with carbon fibre instead of leaves. "What's this?"

"Well, the folks back in R&D don't think it's a good idea for you to smoke real cigars so soon into your recovery, so they came up with this phantom cigar instead." Venom flipped it over curiously at Ocelot's explanation. "It has a... couple of medicinal properties too, if you catch my drift. It'll help with your muscles and joints in the field, in case you need to relax. Speeds up your perception of time the longer your take it, too."

"...Is it cannabis?"

"No, the main compound is thujone," Ocelot replied, stifling a laugh. "In high doses, it causes hallucinatory and anaesthetic effects, but we tweaked it a little to suit you better. It comes from -"

"Wormwood, yeah," Venom interjected, earning a surprised look from the other man. "Something I picked up from the medical team," he mumbled vaguely, waving his hand as if to say _from before_. Ocelot nodded, accepting the explanation with ease.

"Then you know what you're in for. I have to admit though, Boss - I'm surprised you haven't asked for a single smoke over the journey."

"I had more important matters on my mind. So how do you light this thing?"

Ocelot's next gift was even better. The iDroid was a marvel, and it wasn't long before Venom found the virtual lighter function on the device to light up his cigar, much like the real thing. He was reluctant to hand the iDroid back to Ocelot, but the man needed the maps to navigate around the Afghan terrain later.

Venom took a long drag, savouring the moment as best he could - a small moment of peace that was the calm before the upcoming, neverending storm. He turned up the volume for the radio, recognizing no need for more conversation, slowly feeling the effects of the thujone seeping into his bloodstream as another song came on.

He liked this one.

Well we know where we're goin'  
But we don't know where we've been  
And we know what we're knowin'  
But we can't say what we've seen  
And we're not little children  
And we know what we want  
And the future is certain  
Give us time to work it out  
  
We're on a road to nowhere  
Come on inside  
Takin' that ride to nowhere  
We'll take that ride  
  
I'm feelin' okay this mornin'  
And you know  
We're on the road to paradise  
Here we go, here we go…

 

***

 

ISHMAEL

 

He left Bucharest again exactly three days after his arrival, making it unmistakably clear that he’d come here primarily for business matters, and most of that had been taken care of. He just couldn’t afford wasting away any more days after losing almost ten years of his life, not to mention that he was already starting to feel restless — and that was never a good sign. He needed to get out of this city. It was too quiet at night, the rooms cramped and stuffy.

He’d drive all the way down to Africa, make some money and get his fix. He didn’t doubt that V’s quest for revenge would lead him there sooner or later, too; until then, he’d get in contact with some people and have a couple of them relocate to an offshore base in the Seychelles waters. He emptied his cup of cold, black coffee in one go, and grabbed his saddlebag to join EVA outside, who was putting the finishing touches on his bike. The machine hadn’t given him much trouble on his way here, but she’d wanted to check it again, just in case. Nostalgia _(sentimentality)_ was probably another motivating factor: he recalled how, after the formation of Cipher, he and EVA had disappeared for an entire week for a road trip on that bike, ditching any and all responsibilities that came with being part of an organization attempting to seize control of politics on a global scale. Zero had chewed them out for that stunt once they’d returned, but neither of them had cared too much.

Just being able to go anywhere without having to hide had been enough, feeling the wind in their hair as they watched life pass them by.

“Hey,” he said, and she stood, wiping some sweat from her brow and affectionately patting the tank of the motorcycle. She let her lit cigarette drop to the ground, putting it out by stepping on it. Some tune or other was droning from the radio next to her array of tools.

We're on a road to nowhere  
Come on inside  
Takin' that ride to nowhere  
We'll take that ride  
  
Maybe you wonder where you are  
I don't care  
Here is where time is on our side  
Take you there...take you there  
  
We're on a road to nowhere  
We're on a road to nowhere  
We're on a road to nowhere...

“Should be good to go,” she said with a wistful smile, arms crossed over her chest, and Jack stepped forward to strap the saddlebag down. She obviously wasn’t too happy about him leaving so soon, but she also knew that there was hardly anything she could do to keep him there. So she let him go, promising to take care of everything that needed to be taken care of, now and in the future.

When he was done, he pulled his gloves from a pocket of his leather jacket, slipping his fingers into them. Turning towards her, he said, “We’ll stay in touch.”

That assertion didn’t seem to soothe her troubled mind, and she touched his arm reluctantly, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Please be careful. The last time I saw you… I don’t want to see you like that again. Neither does Adam.” She gave a humorless chuckle. “Or anyone else. I’m sure your partner nearly had a heart attack, too.”

_I bet. What’s he gonna do out there, all on his own? Who’s gonna remember him? What is he without me, or you?_

“EVA,” he said tenderly, cupping her face with both of his large, calloused hands. Her eyelids lowered a fraction, her fingers holding onto his wrist.

_Nothing. Just another drop in the bucket. Someone I spared and took along with me when I shouldn’t have. And that’s the only reason why you chase so desperately after ghosts, latching onto them and trying to chain them down. Like parasites._

“I love you,” she said, almost tonelessly, as if she was trying to convince herself more than him. The words were hollow. He brushed some hair out of her eyes and placed a kiss to her forehead, then let go and mounted his bike, pulling his goggles over his eyes. He ignited the motor and eased the kickstand back. The revving of the engine drowned out the radio.

He didn’t look back once, but even then he knew that she was crying, unheard, and to herself.

He thought: _you all died a long time ago_ , and then he was gone, riding alone.

 

***

 

There's a city in my mind  
Come along and take that ride  
and it's all right, baby, it's all right  
  
And it's very far away  
But it's growing day by day  
And it's all right, baby, it's all right  
  
They can tell you what to do  
But they'll make a fool of you  
And it's all right, baby, it's all right  
  
We're on a road to nowhere

He pressed the ‘Record’ button again once the song was done playing, then removed the tape. The rain had stopped just in time for his cigar to burn out, and he  went outside to round up his men. They were done here.

Time to move on to the next one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5 Though he did, for some miraculous reason, have the time to tell me this little story when I voiced my surprise over a pack of six cats napping by the tree next to mine: that Cyprus was once invaded by venomous snakes, to the point where people could hardly even inhabit the island. So Saint Nicholas, the patron of some monastery near Limassol, basically imported a bunch of cats from Palestine and Egypt in order to fight off the snake infestation…over two thousand years ago. Or something along those lines. And that’s why there are still so many cats all over Cyprus, doing their duty to this day. Suppose I should count myself lucky that my own feline guardian happens to be rather fond of snakes.
> 
> * * *
> 
> [Obtained Cassette Tape (Road To Nowhere)](https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/fd7g7vdkp6wz18o/14%20-%20Road%20To%20Nowhere%20%28Remastered%20Version%29.mp3).


	10. X2 - CHECK YOUR IDROID FOR DETAILS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art by [Marr](http://ironfries.tumblr.com/). Crossposted from [here](http://ironfries.tumblr.com/post/133937282371/doodles-for-chapter-7-whats-past-is-prologue) and [here](http://ironfries.tumblr.com/post/137924806586/for-europeanextreme-d-long-overdue-adududu).

  



End file.
